The Legacy (26 page)

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 head-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 …’

Evelyne let rip. ‘ “Our… ?” What do you mean, “Our”? That little bugger wasn’t ours, Da, he wasn’t worth the worry we all had, he had it coming to him!’

Hugh stared in horror as she faced him, arms folded, with such a look of fury on her face he was astounded. He threw the papers at her. ‘The lad had his throat cut by those vermin and that’s all you can say about it, he had it coming to him? What kind of woman are you?’

Evelyne turned away from him and he walked out, slamming the door so hard the house shook. Why hadn’t she told Hugh the whole story, why hadn’t she told him now? She knew it was because of Gladys, and she felt guilty. She went up to her room and from the window she could see Hugh and Gladys running up the road. If she cut across the fields as fast as she could and up the other side of the mountain, she could get to Freedom before them.

The crowd roared. The two boxers were well-matched, and both around the same weight. Even though Freedom was five inches taller, Taffy had the extra inches in muscle, his solid body straining and sweating as he threw punch after punch. Freedom was up to his old dancing tricks, as light on his feet as a woman. He seemed to be running rings round Taffy.

‘Git the bugger to sit still, Taffy lad!’

They were already into five rounds, with neither boxer giving points away. They were even and both looked strong enough to go to the distance. The bell clanged and they split up, heading back to their corners. They were both filthy from the earth and coal dust they kicked up as they fought. Taffy panted and gulped at the water, spat it out and looked at Roberts.

‘He’s the toughest I’ve had yet, you buggers, he’s like a ruddy fly dancing around me.’

Roberts rubbed Taffy down and he kept up a steady flow of instructions. ‘Tire him, let him dance his feet off, he’ll soon slow down, but don’t stop the punches hitting home.’

‘What d’ye mean, don’t stop ‘em, I’m trying hard enough and can’t get at him, he’s clobbered me twice.’

Roberts could see that Freedom’s punch had caught Taffy’s right eye, which was swelling up like a tangerine.

Throughout the break the crowd yelled, ‘Tafffyyyyy-yyyy … Taffyyyyyy …’ No one shouted for Freedom, the gypsies sat silent and watchful. They were acutely aware of the growing drunkenness on the far side of the ring, and the echo of the men’s voices combined with the gurgle of the waterfall made a horrible, rumbling, guttural noise. Like animals they were baying for blood.

Sir Charles sipped from his brandy flask, gazing at the black-haired gypsy through half-closed eyes. He watched the lean body swerving, dodging, the strong legs keeping up the strange dance steps, and wondered how long the man could keep up such a movement. He didn’t seem to tire in the least, but one look at his opponent told him the big Taffy Brown was starting to tire. Sir Charles knew that the lad was waiting for an opening - knew Freedom was merely toying with the Welshman - and he was excited, grinding his teeth, a habit he had had since childhood. The lad was even better than he had been told, like a wild animal. But the most important thing about him was his intelligence. He was playing for time … an intelligent boxer? Unheard of!

Trying to predict when Freedom would knock Taffy out, Sir Charles turned to Ed and saw the same dazzled look on his friend’s face. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘Gawd help us, he’s beautiful, just beautiful, what I wouldn’t do to get me ‘ands on ‘im, work wiv ‘im. ‘E’s world-class material guv, look at ‘im, dancing round like ‘e was fresh as a daisy.’

Evelyne raced up the path, her breath heaving in her chest. She cut her hand on the brambles as she jumped the stream, but kept on running.

Rawnie was washing out Jesse’s clothes. There was no visible sign of anyone but she could hear the sound of running footsteps. She straightened up, her hackles rising. It was clearer now, someone running, and running fast … there was fear, and Rawnie’s dark eyes flashed around the dark mountainside.

Evelyne gasped for breath and rounded the curved pathway, with still a good mile to go. She paused as another massive roar echoed down from Devil’s Pit. The next moment her heart lurched as a scrawny hand gripped her hair from behind and a razor-sharp knife pricked her throat. Her legs went from under her as a hard kick from hobnailed boots cut into the backs of her knees. She fell forward, and felt her hair torn out by the roots. Screaming with agony and fear, she rolled over and found herself looking straight into Rawnie’s face.

Rawnie’s eyes blazed, the knife held high, and Evelyne shouted ‘Rawnie! Rawnie!’ As if a cloud had lifted from her face, Rawnie relaxed and backed away from Evelyne.

‘Remember me, Rawnie, it’s Evelyne … Rawnie, it’s me, the girl with the red hair, look, I wear your earring, see?’

She pushed back her hair and showed Rawnie the gold hoop earring. Rawnie stared, and Evelyne saw the small, clenched hand loosen its grip on the knife, and then Rawnie sat back on her heels and smiled.

‘O lelled thee for a jal a moskeying, an you as almost mullo mas.’

Evelyne didn’t understand and Rawnie explained, ‘I thought you were a spy, you were almost dead meat.’

Evelyne got to her feet, still panting for breath. She had to find Freedom, had to speak to him. Rawnie pointed up to the mountain. Freedom was still fighting, the roars of the crowd echoed down.

It was very difficult to explain to Rawnie, but Evelyne told her of the newspaper cuttings and how they were discovered in her pocket. She didn’t mention the possibility that her father could cause trouble, just that the men might turn nasty. She wanted to warn Freedom -warn the whole camp that they should leave. Rawnie laughed and asked what the papers said about the killings.

‘This is hardly the time to discuss it - the fact is the villagers will believe Freedom guilty.’

Rawnie looked closely at Evelyne and then turned away, her voice soft and quiet, strange. ‘Thee don’t believe this to be true, but the gav mush do, is that so?’

Evelyne looked puzzled, and Rawnie told her that gav mush was the law, then she spat on the ground. She had changed so much, there was something chilling about her. Still as beautiful, but there was a nasty, sarcastic edge to everything she said. Her eyes were expressionless, then mocking, and she waded into the stream to prevent Jesse’s shirt from floating away. She slapped it on to the bank, and lifted her skirts high.

‘Thee washed me down that night, thee saw the marks on my body, what you say should be done to those that had their way with me? What you say, paleface? Let the gav mush smack their filthy hands that pawed and prodded into my body? Smack their hands and say, “She was only a gyppo whore”?’

Evelyne shook her head as the cheers carried down from Devil’s Pit, and they could have been back in Cardiff inside that nightmare tent. Rawnie rolled Jesse’s shirt and laid it on a rock, banged it, twisted it. She seemed in no hurry to help Freedom.

‘I’m Jesse’s manushi now, he made me romms him to show he didn’t care what those vermin had done to my body. I wear his ring now, I’m Jesse’s woman.’

Satisfied the shirt was clean, Rawnie shook the wet material and then in a strange movement wrapped the wet shirtsleeves round her waist and gave Evelyne a slant-eyed look. Rawnie moved closer and closer to Evelyne, her eyes hypnotic, just like the time she had read Evelyne’s palm.

‘I’ll tell you the tatcho, paleface, only you’ll know, and I can see in your yocks ye’ll not betray me, mande mui.’

Closer and closer she came until her hands traced Evelyne’s face. ‘We done each one - one by one - an’ Jesse let me have their throats, look into their eyes before the blade was drawn across.’

Evelyne stepped back, afraid of her.

‘The best was the last, sucking on his toffee-apple, and I was right behind him, just a small move and …’