The Legacy (46 page)

Murphy beamed. ‘Bejasus, I’ve got three weeks to get one night out of me system, an’ I give you me word I’ll not touch a drop after tonight, now come on man, let’s get going.’

Poor O’Keefe was dragged off to the Hammersmith Palais to hear the Dixieland Jazz Band. Murphy beamed with delight, he clapped and sang along, ‘Do-wack-a-do, boop-a-doop …’ He was up doing the Black Bottom with a woman O’Keefe had first thought to be an old lady with white hair, but when she turned round he saw that it was the new ash-blonde colour, not white but silver. Murphy wouldn’t come off the dance floor and O’Keefe sat subdued and wretched. At least he was exercising, even if it was the Black Bottom.

Ed pushed open the privy door, still buttoning up his trousers. His morning ritual had been disturbed by loud, childish sobs … Freedom was standing in the yard with a small, ragged boy, who was clutching a rotting, dead pigeon to his chest.

‘Go on, gerrout of it or I’ll tan yer hide.’ Freedom frowned at Ed and gently eased the dead bird from the little boy’s hands.

‘It was me pet, I’ve tried everyfink ter make ‘im eat.’ Freedom sat back on his haunches with the little corpse in his hands. The maggots were eating its eyes out, but Freedom stroked the bird’s head gently. ‘I tell thee what, I’ll take him with me, maybe I’ll have him right as rain.’

From within the crumbling house a woman called for ‘Will’, and the child ran off. Ed cringed with distaste.

‘You’ll get disease from that, chuck it in the canal, and never mind talkin’ wiv the kids, you’ll ‘ave ‘em hangin’ round yer neck … an’ get a move on, you’re meeting Murphy today.’

Pat Murphy showered and O’Keefe rubbed him down, then gave him a heavy massage.

‘My God, I couldn’t believe my eyes, she was a dragon, boy, woke up next to a dragon, must have been near sixty, why d’you let me do it?’

O’Keefe thumped Murphy’s back, hard. It wasn’t for want of trying to prize his champion away from the woman. He’d almost got a back-hander as Murphy, drunk as a lord, insisted the woman was Gloria Swanson. Soon Murphy was togged up and waiting, ready, in the gym. He was doing pressups in a corner while two young lads watched in awe. Then he worked out on the weights, sweating, easing up his muscles. His body was very powerful, and he stood six-foot-two in his leather-soled boxing boots. Ed reckoned he was at least half a stone, maybe more, heavier than Freedom.

O’Keefe noticed the big fella immediately and crossed over to Ed, jerking his thumb in Freedom’s direction.

‘This the lad, is it? He’s a big’un all right, let’s hope he’ll be able to give him a work out, he certainly needs one. Pat, Pat, come on, into the ring with you.’

Murphy danced his way towards the ring, and couldn’t keep still while O’Keefe put on his gloves. He inserted his gumshield and put his leather head-protector on, then Murphy began punching the sides of the iring. Freedom stepped into the ring, gloves tied, gumshield in, and his leather helmet strapped on. The two worked well, Freedom giving Murphy a run for his money. He also took a number of punches, and pulled back on his punches a little, and was stopped as Murphy spat out his shield.

‘Bejasus, what they got here, a ballroom dancer? Can’t you do anything better than this punk?’

Ed gave Freedom a tiny hooded nod, he could push a bit more. The men started again, this time Freedom was feeling Murphy’s punches, fending them off, but they were like iron, the man had a lot of power behind him. Freedom stepped up his punching, gave a good body blow, only to be encouraged by Murphy himself.

‘Thatta boy, come on, get your pecker up, come on, gimme a run for my money.’

O’Keefe nodded to Freedom, then talked out of the side of his mouth to Ed. ‘Your lad’s got promise, nice mover, needs to train up the power behind his punch but he’s got promise, you’re right.’

Throughout the bout Freedom was using his right fist, never giving his left space, he defended, defended, very rarely pushing Murphy. Murphy dominated the centre of the ring, moving Freedom around, on him, after him, and he didn’t pull some of his punches. At the end they were both sweating profusely and Murphy threw in the towel, he wanted to rest. Ed could have swiped Freedom, he just stood in the centre of the ring, unsure what to do next.

‘For Chrissakes, man,’ he whispered, ‘look like yer out of bloody breath, heave yer chest up an’ down a bit!’

The following day’s sparring match was a little tougher. Murphy was working now, and not playing around. Freedom didn’t have to act, he had his work cut out trying to fend off the body punches. Murphy concentrated on the body, even after the bout he went and worked on the punchbag for a further hour.

‘Well, what you think, can you take him?’

Freedom mulled the question over for what seemed to Ed to be a very long time, then he said he didn’t know. He didn’t think Murphy was giving full power, he was holding back. The next spar Freedom would push a few punches, but Murphy had one hell of a right hook.

‘But he opens up, I’ve been watchin’ ‘im, he goes to a format, right upper, right upper, an’ then he’s comin’ in with a body left, but he double swings and in comes that right hook. You got to get into that opening, he’s wide open for a moment each time.’

Freedom raised his eyes to heaven, shook his head. ‘Ed, what you think I bin trying to do, mun, he’s a dancer too, you know, light on his feet for his weight.’

Ed shoved his stubby finger into Freedom’s chest, said that he, Freedom, was twice the mover, and lighter.

‘I’m lighter, Ed, that’s for sure, I’d say by about sixteen pounds.’

Jack came out of his office and went over to O’Keefe. He had a list of reporters requesting permission to photograph the Irish champion. He also had a lot of press photographs of the titleholder from the morning paper’s sports edition. On the back page, Micky Morgan stood with his fists up. Unlike Murphy, his face showed war wounds, a flattened nose, crumpled ears. His eyes were slightly puffy, eyes that glared out of the newspaper.

‘Eh, Murphy, wanna see how Micky’s lookin’ lately? Not good, that Scotch fella really gave him a going-over, see?’

Murphy took the paper and stared at the glowering man, adding up on his fingers how many weeks had gone by since Micky’s last bout. ‘He was cut, wasn’t he? Right eye? Lemme see now … I’d calculate the lad’s only just got nice, clean, fresh skin over this right eye, what you say, boss? Oi, O’Keefe, what you say, doesn’t look too dangerous to me?’

O’Keefe didn’t even cross the room, he was winding bandages into rolls, concentrating on them. ‘He’s a real fighter, Pat, and he’s hungry, they had a good “take” on the Scottish bout. I wouldn’t think that eye worries him one jot, man’s a boxer, know what I mean? That opponent was good, and dirty, thumb in the eye round one, he was also very handy with his head. Micky took him out in round five, they say the fella’s still not sure what hit him. Mickey was a stoker on board HMS Junnsanta, word is ‘the shovel’s still attached to his hand.’

Through O’Keefe’s slow assessment of his next opponent, Murphy stood with his arms folded. As O’Keefe wound down and finished rolling the bandages, Murphy turned to the assembled room.

‘That’s what I like to hear, man giving his boxer confidence, right, thanks a lot, an’ where’s that gyppo? You hear him? Tomorrow, son, put a bit of energy into it, Jack, you get the press up here, I’ll give ‘em something to write about, and, O’Keefe, I’ll have that stoker running.’

O’Keefe looked over to Ed and gave him a wink, then he went to Murphy and cuffed him over the head, flung an arm round his shoulder and said he loved him. ‘Now you’re talking, Pat, talking like a winner.’ Freedom picked up his kitbag. He had not said more than a few words to Murphy or his trainer. He liked them both, liked them a lot. He was silent on the journey home on the crowded tram. He liked to sit up front on the open deck. He wore a cloth cap pulled down and a woollen scarf, his jacket collar turned up. Ed wondered what he was thinking, but he never could tell, it unnerved him.

The following morning the gym was crowded with reporters hanging around with their big cameras and tripods. They were setting up by the side of the ring. Jack, dressed in his Sunday suit, brought out all the old photographs of himself, but no one was interested.

O’Keefe had to restrain Murphy from wearing his best velvet shorts, telling him they should be kept for the fight. He couldn’t, however, stop him wearing his new, hand-stitched, monogrammed robe. He was there, flaunting himself, swashbuckling up and down the gym, and he had the reporters roaring with laughter as he posed and danced about. Ed looked over to his two lads, who were standing at the far end of the gym. They looked uneasy and nervous, and he made his way over to them.

‘Where in God’s name is he?’

Ed threw up his hands, Freedom had gone to the toilet, what a time to go! All the press gathered and where was their man? On the throne. ‘He gloved up?’

Freedom was standing in the dirty, broken-down toilet. His coat was round his shoulders, gloves on, and he was leaning against the brick wall. His eyes were closed and he was talking quiedy to himself. ‘Doing this for you, Evie, I get through this then it’s the title, and you’ll have all the dresses and hats you want, this is for you, Evie, I’m doing this for you.’

Ed sighed with relief when Freedom entered the gym, no one paying him any attention. Murphy was up in the ring, posing, swinging on the ropes, and yelling for Freedom to join him. ‘I’m not wearing me helmet, man, I want me face to be seen in all its beauty.’

As Freedom stepped into the ring, Murphy pranced over and gave him a wink. ‘Right, son, don’t hold back, let’s give ‘em a show, get your face in the press with me, all right?’

The room was set up, all the cameras in position, and O’Keefe stepped into the ring, spouting a few words about this being just a taster for the championship. Freedom’s name was not even mentioned, he sat in the corner while his two lads massaged his shoulders. Murphy was pounding the air, and was led into his corner for his gumshield to be fitted.

The bell sounded, and everyone in the room focused their attention on the ring. Murphy came out hunched and ready for the attack, gave Freedom a good pounding, flashy punching, and even while he was doing it he was still talking. ‘Oh, wait ‘til they see me in the papers, me mother’ll throw a fit, me lovely face on every stand.’

Murphy’s face altered as he felt a punch hit home hard, and diis time he didn’t mess around, he went back at Freedom, his eyes never leaving Freedom’s face. Murphy was amused, he’d seen that look, so the boy wanted to make a show of himself, did he? Well now, he would have the lesson of his life.

The whole room picked up the new atmosphere in the ring - suddenly it wasn’t a game. Ed could feel his right leg shaking all by itself, and he swallowed and looked at O’Keefe. The last thing he wanted was for him to step into the ring and stop the sparring match.

A murmur ran around the gym, people moved closer in, the cameras flashed. Ed was saying a silent prayer, over and over he was willing Freedom to find that break, that break in Murphy’s defence. Murphy had Freedom up against the ropes, gave him a good left jab and was about to come in with a right, left, and his famous right, when he felt as if his stomach had been blown out. The punches came one after the other, three times the force of Freedom’s punches in their previous sparring matches. Murphy couldn’t believe it was happening, he gave back everything he had and his fists seemed to glance off the lad, eyes to eyes, the blue twinkle had gone, and the last thing Murphy remembered was the blackness, the blackness of those eyes staring into him, expressionless, masked, in a set, impassive face.

The room went silent as Murphy crashed, unconscious, to the canvas. Then the place was in an uproar, the reporters clamouring, fighting to get into the ring, shouting for the name, the boxer’s name. Ed gave the signal and the two lads grabbed Freedom and hauled him to the ringside. Freedom shoved them aside and pushed his way through the men gathered around the still unconscious Murphy. Ed was shouting, ‘Freedom Stubbs, his name is Freedom Stubbs.’ It was the name that went with the first face Murphy saw as he came round. O’Keefe was hemmed in by reporters already asking if his man would still fight. O’Keefe ignored them and tried to get to Murphy.

Freedom already had Murphy sitting up, leaning against his shoulder. Murphy’s right eye was streaming blood, his face blotchy red and his lip cracked. He was dazed, but even in that condition he managed a joke, ‘Well I’ll be buggered, I’ve been beaten at me own game.’

He looked helplessly at O’Keefe, beseeching him to get him out somehow. Freedom helped the big man to his feet, he wanted to tell him he was sorry, but O’Keefe pushed him away with tears streaming down his face, and helped his man out of the ring, ‘You bastard, Ed Meadows, you bastard!’

It was Murphy who broke up what looked as if it could become an ugly situation. He held his hand up and looked to Freedom. ‘There’s your champion, good luck, son, you certainly took all o’mine!’

Murphy’s legs buckled beneath him and he was carried into the dressing room. The press surrounded Freedom.

Jack looked stunned, he stared at the departing group carrying poor Murphy out, then back to Freedom in the ring. He said it to no one in particular, to the air.

‘I ain’t ever seen a punch like that, not ever, Gawd almighty, what a punch.’

Sir Charles swung into motion, the press had a field day, and Freedom was accepted as a contender for the British Heavyweight title. He was going to make sure his champion would be totally acceptable both socially and in the ring.

Freedom was removed from Ed’s lodgings and installed in Sir Charles’ small bachelor flat in Jermyn Street. He wanted to dress Freedom in the finest before he was taken to the Pelican Club or White’s. Freedom went to Mr Poole, the famous tailor, for his sporting set, then to the equally famous trio of high priests of fashion - Mr Cundy, the general manager of the store, who waited on his every whim, Mr Dents, in the coat department, and Mr Allen, responsible for waistcoats and trousers. Mr Allen had to measure Freedom’s inside leg twice as he couldn’t quite believe how long it was, and the shirtmaker tutted and muttered as he measured and remeasured Freedom’s arms and neck.