The Legacy (45 page)

Freedom went to her, held her gently in his arms and whispered to her, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’

Releasing her, he walked to the door like a man bereft. Ed tried to stop him leaving. ‘Now, don’t do nuffink you’ll regret, son, we go to London and …’

Like Freda, he couldn’t continue. Freedom gave Ed a heartbreaking look, then a strange, soft half-smile. He seemed so calm, his voice so soft and gentle.

‘We have a saying, if you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you it is yours, if it doesn’t, it never was …’

Freda opened her hand, and there was the cornflower. Freedom held her hand gently, then tucked the flower behind her ear. He smiled. ‘Evie’s favourite flower.’

Freda had never seen such open despair in a man’s eyes, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. She watched helplessly as he walked away.

‘I’ll go to him, go with him.’

‘No, Ed, leave him, leave him a while.’

From the cottage window they watched him walk, straightbacked, across the courtyard. There was no spring in his step now, no highstepping Romany saunter. As he reached the open fields he looked up and let out a single howl, like an animal caught in a trap. The cry chilled them both, the rooks screeched and flew from the trees like a black cloud, and then Freedom began to run, and run, until he was no more than a black spot on the horizon, as small as the birds he had disturbed.

ED became more expansive as the train pulled in to Victoria Station in London. He was getting back to his home territory, and he couldn’t wait to get Freedom ready to meet the Irish champion.

From Victoria Station, Ed and Freedom took a taxi to Lambert’s Gym in Bell Street, a run-down area of Soho. The city throbbed, noisy, crowded and dirty, and Freedom loathed it, was disgusted by it, but Ed was in his element, ‘Oh, it’s good to he back, you’ll love it ‘ere, Freedom, come on, down yer go, gym’s in the basement.’

The gym was alive with the thudding sounds from punchbags and ten boxers working out. The walls were covered with photographs and posters of famous boxers and bouts. Freedom looked around, feeling out of place in his suit and shirt. The boxers gave him only a cursory glance and carried on with what they were doing. Ed seemed to know everyone, waving across the gym, thumping a young boy on the shoulder.’ ‘Ello, son, how ya doin’? ‘Arry me boy, nice to see you, long time … Jimbo, you still at it, thought you retired …’

Ed passed through, beckoning Freedom to follow him, and they crossed the floor of the gym, skirted the ring in the centre and made their way to the small offices at the far end. Ed banged on the door and opened it, again gesturing for Freedom to follow.

‘Jack, I just got in, any chance of a word in your shell-like? Want you to meet me new lad.’

An ex-boxer himself, with cauliflower ears and a flattened splodge of a nose, Jack Lambert was now a promoter. He wore a shirt that was minus its collar and wide red braces, and he was rarely seen without a huge cigar sticking out of his mouth. Freedom and Ed followed him into his small office at the back of the gym.

Freedom was aware of being given the once-over by the cigar-smoking man. The puffy eyes stared hard, examining him from the top of his head down to his feet. Freedom shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor.

‘This your new lad then, Ed? He’s a big’un, isn’t he? He a half-caste, is he? Dark, isn’t he?’

Freedom opened his mouth to speak, but Ed shut him up with a quick look, and launched into a speech that had Freedom listening intently, hardly able to believe his ears. Ed told Jack that Freedom was a fresh’un, straight out of the booths, not had a professional fight, but they wanted to try him out for starters, he was just a gypsy lad.

‘You rate him, do you Ed? What weight’s he carryin’?’

Ed shrugged, although he knew Freedom’s weight down to the last ounce, muttered that he was around twelve, thirteen stone, so he’d have to be in the heavyweight class.

‘That’s my trouble, see Jack, I don’t want ‘im to go into a professional bout yet, ‘e’s not ready, what I’m after is - until I’ve ‘ad time to work on ‘im, just for a few shillings, lad’s gotta eat, know what I mean - I was wonderin’ if you could see to a couple of sparrin’ matches, anyone comin’ in fer a big bout around his weight. You got a match ahead? One suitable, eh?’

Ed knew exactly which bout was due - it was Murphy, the Irish Heavyweight Champion, coming to fight the present holder of the British title. Jack scratched his head and then drummed his fingers on a page of his book. ‘There is the Murphy crowd comin’ in, but they’ll be bringing their own spar. Doubt if they’ll want a bum an’ mouth round before the big bout. ‘E’s an Irish bog fighter, an’ he’s takin’ on Sam Gold’s boy. It’s a big bout, Ed, whoever gets through will have a crack at the world title, take on Dempsey ‘imself.’

Ed homed in on Jack, Murphy would be perfect. ‘You got it all up ‘ere, Jack, always said that, we can see how the lad fares with a champ, we’ll know for sure what we got or what we ‘aven’t, you’ll set it up then?’

Jack stubbed his cigar out, had another good look over Freedom and then nodded. As Freedom and Ed left, Jack wasn’t sure if he’d been given the bum’s rush himself. But then it had been his idea, so he asked the operator to put a call through to Ireland.

Ed skipped along the pavement, clapping his hands. ‘The old bugger fell for it, hook, line an’ sinker.’

Freedom strolled along beside him, still not knowing what the hell was going on.

‘Look, son, we got you a sparring bout with the Irish titleholder, he’s comin’ over for a crack at the British title, right? British Heavyweight, now then, you show what you can do and ‘is Lordship’s gonna make sure the press‘11 be there, with me?’

Freedom still hadn’t cottoned on, and Ed began to think that his prize didn’t have much ‘upstairs’. ‘This is your fight, you ain’t gonna spar, you’re gonna box ‘im right outta the ring.’

Freedom was dubious, it was a short cut, but somehow it didn’t seem right to him. It was dirty. Ed snapped at him that it was life, that was all, and the best fighter would win, who knows, the Irish fighter might wipe Freedom out.

‘Don’t you think for one minute Murphy’s a push-over, he’s a fighter, and ‘e’s desperate to get that title, you any idea how much Dempsey took at the gate last fight, one million dollars, mate, one friggin’ million dollars!’

After crossing town to Tower Bridge, Freedom and Ed took a bus over the bridge to the dockland area. Freedom trailed after Ed as he walked down squalid streets, up alleys, until they arrived at a small, two-up, two-down house which was squashed into a seedy row of identical houses, the street alive with noisy children.

Ed led Freedom along the passage into a small back room with two cot beds. It was a far cry from The Grange. ‘Right, lad, dump yer bags, toilet’s out in the yard, an’ by the stink of the place the drains is clogged up. Still, maybe we won’t be here for long, eh?’

Freedom stared around the squalid room, at the cracked window, grey with dirt, that looked straight out on to a high brick wall.

Unperturbed as ever, Ed was checking the blankets for bedbugs. He whistled, full of energy, and talked nineteen to the dozen. He told Freedom to unpack, but Freedom had only the clothes he stood up in and his training gear.

‘I’ll be two minutes, gotta ring ‘is Lordship, tell ‘im we’re settled, like, then we’ll get us some dinner … put yer feet up, get as much rest as yer can, want you fit for Murphy, eh?’

Left alone, Freedom sat down on his bed. He didn’t open his bag, or even check the bed for bugs. He simply sat, hands cupped loosely in front of him. When Ed returned almost an hour later, Freedom was in exactly the same position.

‘Right, Murphy’s comin’ into town, you’re to meet him tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on how you behave. These bog Irish need a bit of handlin’, and you are going ter give a performance … but you save the best for the press, are you wiv me? … like an actor? Yer know, rehearsin’, savin’ hisself for the opening night … Freedom? You listened to a word I said?’

‘What happens if he don’t want me to spar?’

‘Leave that to me. It’s sorted, now get off yer backside, I’m starvin’ ‘ungry.’

Ed pulled open the door and turned back, hesitating, then went to Freedom and gave him a hug, ‘Eh, this place ain’t much, I know that, but give us time? Best nobody knows nuffink about yer, understand? Sir Charles, he knows what he’s doing.’

Freedom gave him that half-smile of his. ‘Thing is, Ed, I don’t think there’s room in here for His Lordship …’

Ed cuffed him one, but didn’t laugh. ‘There’s them an’ us, that’s life … now get a move on or I’ll ‘ave shockin’ wind.’

Pat Murphy looked far from ‘bog Irish’. He was wearing a long, camelhair coat with a velvet collar, and a black felt hat, a satin band around the crown. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and carried a silver-topped walking stick. Ed slithered around the edge of the room, wanting to get a good look at the Irish champion without him knowing. Two men, equally well dressed, stood beside Murphy, and he towered over them. His huge chest under the tailored suit and overcoat looked a lot wider than Freedom’s.

Murphy was posing for a photograph, the photographer hidden under a black cloth.

‘Mr Murphy, could you please hold that pose, thank you sir, and now would it be permissible to have one of you on your own for the Evening Chronicle?’

Murphy smiled as his two men departed to lean against the ropes. He wore a fine leather glove on his right hand, in which he also held its mate, leaving his bare left hand to rest on the ropes. Ed could see a heavy diamond ring on his little finger. More disconcerting was the size of the man’s fists - they were like spades.

‘Come on then, man, let’s be done with this, the bars are open.’ Murphy held his pose, his white teeth gleaming in a frozen smile. He was an exceptionally handsome man and his face bore little or no sign of his boxing career. His nose was straight, his hair, thick, black and curly, hid his ears so Ed could not see if they bore tell-tale marks. Murphy’s eyes were small and china-blue, and they twinkled as he spoke in his thick Irish brogue.

Jack gave the photographer his marching orders, and was about to join Murphy when he spotted Ed. Murphy gave Ed no more than a cursory glance as he moved with his two men towards Jack’s office.

‘This is Ed Meadows, he’s got a good sparring partner for you, Pat.’

Murphy turned to Ed and gave him his full attention. His twinkly eyes went icy-cold as he gave Ed the once-over.

‘Well, they better get him over here, I’ll be needing work outs before the match, your lad good, is he?’

At that point Murphy’s trainer, O’Keefe, laughed and said that his boy needed the very best, and it was lucky they had offered a sparring partner as their own had been put into hospital the night before they left. Murphy looked at Ed.

‘I never meant it, stray punch, poor man went down like a lead balloon, and that’s just how I intend to put the champ down, isn’t that right, Paddy?’

Paddy O’Keefe nodded, raised his fist and punched the padded, camelhair shoulders of Murphy’s coat.

‘Oi, watch out for the coat, it’s pure camelhair, this, have you ever felt such soft material, Jack, go on now, have a feel, is it not like a baby’s arse?’

They moved into Jack’s office, and Ed asked when they would like his boy brought round. Murphy flicked his gloves and said he’d work out first thing in the morning, around ten o’clock. ‘

Ed met with Sir Charles at the Pelican Club, and they ate a big fry-up together. A boxing match was taking place while they ate, npt that Ed paid any attention.

‘He’s a champ, and ‘e’s flash, must ‘ave made a lot of money on the Irish circuits, his face looks unmarked and he’s got fists the size of shovels. I wonder if we’re not pushin’ our lad too fast.’

Sir Charles picked at his steak and seemed more concerned with his tomato than with anything Ed had told him. Ed sighed and tapped Sir Charles on the arm to draw his attention to the entrance. Murphy, his camelhair coat and hat taken from him, stood at the grill-room bar. ‘There ‘e is now, sir, look at ‘im, and ‘e’s got the confidence of Jove himself

They watched as Murphy shook hands with a group of well-dressed City gents and was shown to a table.

They made a great fuss of him, and many eyes were turned towards the ringside table where he sat.

The Pelican Club was half-full of regulars, and a strange bunch they were, a mixture of toffs and betting men. Titles rubbed shoulders with gamblers, bookies and sportsmen and, thankfully, there was not a woman in sight. The club was very much a man’s world, reverberating with loud laughter and men calling to each other between the booths and tables.

‘Man’s a heavy drinker, by the look of it, and likes the social scene, wouldn’t you say? Our boy’ll take him, he’s not our worry, old chap, take a look at the title holder.’

Ed looked around and leant across the table, ‘He here, is ‘e? I can’t see ‘im?’

Sir Charles pushed his plate away and signalled to a waiter, and at the same time he told Ed rather curtly that the champ was under wraps until the main bout, as it should be, he was not even in London.

‘You just make sure Freedom knows what to do. I want him under wraps until I give the word, let Murphy think he’s simply a sparring partner.’

Sir Charles tossed money to the waiter to hand to the boys in the ring. Some toffs came over to the table and Ed knew he was dismissed. He got up and put his hand in his pocket as a gesture, knowing the bill was taken care of.

If Ed Meadows had ever thought Freedom was in any way difficult to control, poor O’Keefe had his hands full with Murphy. He had remained at the Pelican Club all afternoon, drinking. Eventually O’Keefe had poured him into a taxi and taken him back to the hotel, and after a few hours of rest Murphy was up again and raring to go. Fresh as a daisy now, he wanted to see the sights of London. No amount of persuasion from O’Keefe would keep the boxer resting. In exasperation he looked at Murphy prancing around the room in his evening suit, looking for his dancing pumps.

‘For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be getting ready for the British title bout, you’re not here to sightsee, and what you getting all fancied up for?’