The Legacy (44 page)

The two maids shot into their rooms like rabbits bolting into their holes. Miss Balfour stared at Evelyne with such overt disgust on her face that Evelyne barred her way.

‘If you have something to say to me, Miss Balfour, then say it to my face.’

Miss Balfour shrank back and scurried to her room, locking the door behind her. Evelyne entered her own bedroom and gasped. Freedom lay on her bed, smiling, his feet up on the iron bedrail. She closed the door fast. ‘What are you doing here? Do you not know everyone’s out searching for you, and now the police are called in -are you mad, man?’

Miss Balfour could have sworn she heard a man’s voice. She slipped out of her room and crept along the corridor, listened at Evelyne’s door. Afraid to confront them both, she tightened the cord of her dressing gown and hurried down the back stairs.

Freedom cocked his head to one side and placed his finger across his lips to remind Evelyne to speak softly.

‘Will you come with me, you don’t belong here, and they keep us like prisoners … Come away with me? Is this the way you want to live your life? To be paid each month so they own you? So they can tell you when to eat and when to sleep?’

He began to undo his shirt, as if the sounds of the baying dogs below and the whisding of the searching policemen had nothing to do with him.

She whispered back, frantically, ‘You’re drunk, I can smell it, and you go back down right now. They think you’ve run, and poor Ed will get into terrible trouble.’

He threw his shirt aside and began to unbutton his trousers.

‘Are you mad, man? What are you thinking of, here, in the house?’

His face changed, his eyes were so black they frightened her, ‘They don’t own me, they got a piece of paper says they do, but I’m no animal to be bought. No man sets his dogs on me.’

‘You forget yourself, Freedom Stubbs. If it weren’t for Sir Charles you’d be at the end of a hangman’s rope and you well know it.’

‘It’s you that saved me, you, manushi, now come here.’

She backed away from him, pressed herself against the wall. ‘I’m not your manushi, I am not your wife. You don’t belong to them? Well, I don’t belong to you. Now get out of here, go on, get out!’

His fist curled in rage, but she stood up to him, unafraid now.

She slapped his fist. ‘That’s all you know, isn’t it -the fight? You don’t want to better yourself - well, run back to your people, go on, run back, but don’t expect me to be with you in some wretched wagon, chased off the land, run out of every town.’

In a fury he pulled her to him, but she slapped his face. He took it, smiled down at her, and she stepped back and slapped him again.

‘Oh, manushi, is that all yer know, the fight? But my, my, you’re rinkeney when you’re angry … now come to me before you give me a tatto yeck … see, I got something for you.’ He handed her the gold coin Jesse had pressed into his hand … she threw it across the room. He cocked his head to the side, then picked up his shirt and began to dress.

Suddenly she clung to his back … he turned in her arms and cupped her face in his hands. ‘Eh, woman, you twist me so, ye don’t know what thee wants, listen to your heart, manushi, listen.’

He kissed her, slipping her nightdress off, carried her to the bed and laid her down. He snuggled his head close to her and whispered, ‘They’ll have a long night ahead searching for me.’

‘No they won’t, you’re going back, go and give yourself up to them before you cause any more trouble.’

‘Is that what you want?’

Miss Balfour rapped on Evelyne’s door.

‘Open this door this instant, I know you’ve got a man in there, come along, I’ve got Mr Plath with me, open up.’

In a panic, Evelyne reached for her nightdress while Freedom pulled on his shirt and hopped around trying to get into his trousers. Miss Balfour threw the door open. She was carrying a policeman’s truncheon, and was followed close behind by Mr Plath, the estate manager. They just caught Freedom slipping out of the window. Mr Plath made the mistake of grabbing Freedom’s leg, and got a nasty kick in the groin. He rolled in agony on the floor while Miss Balfour screamed, ‘Help, help … someone help!’

Sir Charles made a hurried exit from the house to talk to the police, who were there about the poachers. He had been playing an after-dinner game of rummy, and he was still clutching his cards. His house guests gathered at the windows.

Poor Ed was beside himself, he knew it had all got out of hand. The gamekeepers were embroidering their stories about the gypsy campers every time they retold it. They had been set upon, fired upon, punched and threatened with knives. ‘Freedom, was ‘e wiv ‘em? Will someone tell me, was ‘e wiv ‘em?’

‘Was ‘e wiv ‘em? Look at me throat, the bugger nearly throttled me.’

Sir Charles crossed the courtyard to speak to Ed, his cards still in his hand. ‘I want him found, Ed, brought back, in handcuffs if need be. This is outrageous, do you have any idea of how much time and effort I have been putting in, trying to arrange a bout for him in London? So help me God, he can go back to jail, what on earth possessed him to …’

A screech from a gamekeeper interrupted him. ‘Sir, oh, sir, there’s a man on the roof, look, there he is!’

All eyes were raised to the roof of The Grange, and there he was dancing, singing at the top of his voice,

Oh, can you rokka Romany,

can you play the bosh,

Can you jal adrey the staripen,

can you chin the cosh …

Balancing, holding his arms out as if he were walking a tightrope, Freedom teetered on the roof’s edge. The crowd grew silent.

‘The man must be mad, or drunk, or both.’

Miss Balfour ran to join the crowd. Behind her, Mr Plath came limping, clutching his injured parts. ‘This is her doing, sir, he was with her.’ Sir Charles turned to Ed. His voice was steely, and Ed’s heart sank. ‘When the fool comes down, give him to the law.’

‘But, sir, he’s done nuffink wrong, he’s just ‘ad a few too many.’

Sir Charles’ face twitched, he was so furious. ‘Don’t play games with me, Meadows, I know exactly where he’s been. His friends, so called, have been poaching on my land. He almost killed Fred Hutchins over there. Be in my study first thing in the morning, is that clear? And get all these people away, there has been enough disturbance for one night.’

As Sir Charles strode from the courtyard, there was a gasp from the onlookers. He looked up to see Freedom swinging down from ledge to ledge like a monkey. The police moved in to corner him, and he dodged and ducked as they chased him, then they surrounded him. As they dragged him away, he looked back and Sir Charles flushed as he gave him a dazzling smile.

Ed went into the barn. They had tied Freedom’s hands to one of the posts. His shirt was torn, his face filthy.

‘Why did you do it, lad, there’s two coppers out back with black eyes, and to kick Mr Plath of all people, in the balls. He’s the estate manager … I dunno, I don’t, why in God’s name did you do it? Why did you run?’

Freedom sighed, shook his head. ‘If I’d wanted away, Ed, I’d not have been dancing on the roof, now would I? You tell me why they trussed me up like a chicken?’

‘Sir Charles says he’s through with you, you could even get sent to jail. Poachin’s against the law, never mind what you done to the estate manager.’

With one movement Freedom wrenched the ropes away from the post, shaking the whole barn. He turned on Ed, and Ed backed away, terrified by the anger in those black eyes.

‘You tell His Lordship I want to fight; I don’t want to be kept here like one of his stallions. They’re groomed, and brushed, but spend more time than they should in their stalls. You tell him I could have killed his gamekeepers, each one of ‘em, and Mr Plath’s lucky ‘e still got anythin’ between his legs.’

. He swung a punch at the punchbag, splitting it in two. ‘They set their dogs on children, that were wrong.’ Then he walked out, calm as ever. All Ed could think of was that punch, he had never seen one like it…

The following morning Ed went cap in hand to Sir Charles, beseeched him to listen before he launched into the speech he had obviously prepared.

‘Last night I saw a punch, Sir, that would floor any champion in England. I saw it with me own eyes. He’s wild, but he’s trained every day, not put a foot out of line. Don’t send ‘im away, sir, find him a fight! ‘E’s yer champion, I swear it.’

Sir Charles listened, tapping his fingers on his mahogany desk. ‘Ed, I’m a sportsman, you know that, I believe in him just as much as you, but I cannot have any scandal. Unless you control him, then I am afraid, champion or no, he’ll have to go … if these riff-raff follow him around, then …’

‘Your gamekeepers should not ‘ave set the dogs on to the children, gyppos or not, sir.’

Sir Charles rose from his seat and stared out of the window, his back to Ed. ‘How’s your wife? Settled in, has she?’

‘You bastard,’ thought Ed. He knew exactly what Sir Charles was implying; his livelihood depended on Freedom. He and Freda didn’t own their cottage, they owned nothing.

‘I’d like to see how he’s been doing, set up a bout in the barn, would you? Then we’ll discuss it later … that’s all for now.’

Evelyne sat on the edge of the leather chair. Sir Charles’ study smelt of polish and cigars. She watched him carefully cut the end of his Havana with a gold clipper.

‘I will, of course, give you references, but you must understand, under the circumstances your presence here is …’

Evelyne interrupted him. ‘I have packed, sir, and Mr Plath has given me my wages. You see, I had already made up my mind to leave.’

Sir Charles studied her for a moment. Her composure unnerved him slightly. Sitting ramrod straight, her chin up, her green eyes never leaving his face, she was not apologetic in any way. Suddenly he leaned forward, and she could see a muscle twitch at the side of his jaw, ‘Stay away from him, I shall clear everything with the police and my gamekeepers, he’ll get every chance I can give him, but stay away from him.’

Evelyne stood, her mouth trembling slightly, but she held on to her emotions. Without shaking his outstretched hand she opened the oak-panelled door. She didn’t look back, just closed the door silently behind her.

Freda was polishing her brass fender when a housemaid tapped on her door. She handed Freda a letter. ‘She said be sure you get it, I got to rush now, I’m behind with me work … you done this place up ever so nice, Mrs Meadows.’

Freda didn’t hear the girl leave, she was turning the letter over in her hands. It was Evie’s writing, she’d know it anywhere, with its fancy loops and curls.

Ed had warned Sir Charles to stand well back from the ring. The sweat from the boys might spray on to his grey suit.

Freedom was in high spirits, despite a slight hangover. The evening’s drama appeared to have had little or no effect on him. He was unaware of how Sir Charles had settled everything, unaware how close he had been to losing his chance as a professional boxer.

Taking each boy in turn, even though he was only sparring, he gave such a good performance that Sir Charles gave Ed a wink, gestured for him to go to his side. Ed called out for the boxers to take a break, and he and Sir Charles waited for Freedom to join them.

Sir Charles leant on his silver-topped cane. ‘Appears you don’t think I’ve been pulling my weight? Not arranging a bout soon enough for you? Well, it’s not as easy as that, old chap. You’re unknown, a pit boxer, and they are, as you must be aware, two a penny. To gain a good rating in the game, why, you would more than likely have to take on twenty bouts before you could get any legitimate recognition.’

Freedom rolled his towel into a ball and chucked it aside. Sir Charles could smell him, like an animal, his sweating body was so close … he stepped back, just a fraction. ‘I have been masterminding a plan for you to hit the main circuits in one swoop. I have arranged for you to be the sparring partner for the present Irish Heavyweight Champion. He will be arriving in England shortly for an attempt at the British title.’

Freedom was about to let rip, Ed could see it, so he put out a restraining hand. Sir Charles continued, uninterrupted.

‘They will have all the sports writers there to see this Irish champion working out. And, Freedom, it will be up to you to show what you are worth - particularly when the press are in abundance - be your showcase, so to speak.’

‘Sparring partner? But I been workin’ for a professional bout, that’s what Ed - what you promised me from the word go, sparrin’ ain’t no professional bout.’

Sir Charles checked his gold fob watch and pocketed it before he spoke, making Freedom wait, hanging on his every word. Then he smiled, such a rare occurrence with Sir Charles that it was rather off-putting. His voice was almost sexual in its softness, its humour. ‘Ahhh, but what happens, old fella, if the sparring chappie knocks out the contender - leave a bit of a gap for the main event, wouldn’t you say?’

Ed gave Freedom a warning look to keep his mouth shut. ‘He’ll beat that Irish git wivout a doubt, if you’ll excuse the language, sir.’

Sir Charles strode to the barn doors, swinging his cane. ‘Let us hope he can. Ed, we leave for London first thing in the morning … jolly good bout, lads, well done.’

It was a few moments before it dawned, then Freedom gave Ed such a hug it winded him and he had to sit down on a bench to get his breath back.

Freda could hear Ed singing, ‘Oh, we got no bananas, we got no bananas today … tarrah!’

He opened the cottage door and threw his cloth cap in the air, then swung Freda round, wanting to dance, but she pushed him away. Behind him, Freedom bounded in, forgetting to stop so that he cracked his head on the top of the door, but he didn’t care, he was in such high spirits. ‘Get Evie for us, Freda, we got some news - we’re off to London and we got a fight.’

It was Freedom’s turn to twirl Freda round on her dumpy little legs. ‘I got her this, picked it on the way over. She was in a fair temper with me last night, so put it between the sheets … her book’s sheets, Freda, no need to look so shocked!’

Freedom laughed and tossed the cornflower in the air, then tucked it into Freda’s hand. She turned helpless eyes to Ed, but he was beaming from ear to ear. There on the table lay Evie’s letter. Freda held it out to Freedom, then let her hand drop. She had forgotten Freedom couldn’t read well enough yet. ‘Evie’s gone, Freedom, she left this morning … Here, she wrote to us all. She says she couldn’t come and say goodbye as … well, I don’t have to tell you, we’d all be crying. She wants to make her own way, better herself…’ Freda couldn’t go on, her face crumpled like a child’s and she sobbed.