The Legacy

Chapter 17

SIR Charles Wheeler’s estate was twenty miles from Salisbury, After passing through Andover, the route then wound through mile upon mile of country lanes. Eventually, small, white, hand-painted wooden signposts directed the traveller towards ‘The Grange’ and along lanes only wide enough for a single vehicle, so that it seemed as though The Grange might be only one of the numerous farms buried among the fields and woods.

The arched stone entrance, with gates twenty feet high, set in six-foot stone walls, gave no indication of what lay beyond. The driveway was of gravel, raked smooth, and showed no tracks, but the hedgerows and the profusion of rhododendron bushes with their bright pink and purple blooms gave a hint of what lay beyond. The bushes gave way to a stretch of oak trees half a mile wide, their thick trunks and massive branches joining in an arch, and still the driveway continued.

After a further mile through the magical bower, The Grange itself was still not in sight until, rounding a curve, there it was, standing in such splendour it took the breath away. Hundreds of rose bushes covered immaculate sloping lawns which bordered the horse-shoe drive. A vast fountain sprayed fans of water twenty feet from the open mouths of marble dolphins. Glittering mermaids rode on the creatures’ backs, hands outstretched to welcome visitors. But dominating it all was The Grange, a majestic, overpoweringly beautiful house. Six white pillars flanked the fifteen marble steps to the arched entrance. Three storey high, built in white sandstone, the house was awe-inspiring in its size and architectural proportions.

On each side were more lawns and gardens, with lily ponds and statues. Paths led to the outhouses, stables, barns and, hidden behind a bank of trees, a farm with sprawling, well-kept fields. Behind were more gardens, a man-made lake, and mile upon mile of forest and sloping hills. The Grange dominated the thousand acres surrounding it with such power that any onlooker bowed to its presence.

Also behind The Grange were staff quarters for those who worked the land. In comparison with the house, their cottages were like rows of dolls’ houses. The stables were more splendid, with vast paddocks containing a herd of the finest hunters, groomed by a score of stable boys. The ground staff numbered thirty-five; gardeners, gamekeepers, huntsmen. In addition, there were more than twenty full-time staff employed to run the house. Cooks, butlers, footmen, pantry-maids, valets; all quartered on the very top floor of The Grange … the personal estate of Sir Charles Wheeler.

Rawnie blew a circle of smoke from her hand-rolled cigarette. It drifted and curled above her head in a blue haze. She closed her eyes. She stood high on the brow of a hill overlooking The Grange. Next to her stood Jesse, chewing a long piece of grass, as handsome as ever. He shaded his eyes to look down into the paddocks below.

‘Do ye see him?’

‘Aye, it’s him, cross the paddocks, running like a hare … Mun runs for ‘em like one of their grys … look at.’im.’

Way below her Rawnie watched the running figure of Freedom. Behind him was a motorcar, and they could see a boy standing on the running board, shouting and waving his arms at Freedom.

With one eye on his stopwatch and the other on the road, Ed Meadows swerved the car, almost knocking the boy off the running board. He put his foot down on the accelerator, and closed the gap between the car and Freedom. ‘Tell ‘im to ease off, that’s enough for today.’

The boy shouted, but Freedom continued to run. If anything, he picked up speed.

‘Jesus God, ‘e’ll run ‘imself ter death.’

Ed tooted the horn and drove alongside Freedom. ‘Hey, hey, that’s it, — Freedom … come on, lad, ease yerself down.’

Freedom turned his head towards Ed, but ran on. He had a look on his face that Ed had become accustomed to, a strange, defiant stare. Eventually Ed drove in front of Freedom and turned the car across the lane, got out and shouted at him in a fury, hands on hips. ‘When I say you’ve ‘ad enough I mean it. You’ve run more’n fifteen miles and we got to go an’ work out, you tryin’ ter kill yerself?’

Breath hissing, lungs heaving, Freedom faced him. His long hair was dripping, and his old, rough shirt was sodden with sweat. He laid his hands on the motor, and Ed quickly wrapped a towel around his shoulders and began rubbing him down. Freedom shrugged him away, flicked the towel out of his grasp, and stepped aside to wipe his own sweating body. ‘Months I been here, mun, every day, runnin’, sparrin’, liftin’ the weights, trainin’ … and for what, when do I fight, mun?’

Ed’s look told the young lad to move off. The boy was one of the sparring partners they had brought from London and he was standing staring at Freedom, hero-worship written all over his face.

Ed moved closer to Freedom. ‘You don’t talk ter me that way. You want a fight, I want a fight, but we do what ‘is Lordship tells us to do, we wait. tell you when we’re ready for a bout, not you, I’m the bloody trainer.’p>

His breathing eased, Freedom tossed the towel to the boy and shrugged. His voice was quiet, his fist clenched.

‘I’m ready, you know it. I been fighting years before I was brought here, I’m in the gym day in day out, an’ for what? To entertain ‘is Lordship’s toffs when they come ta visit? I hate him always watchin’ me, is that all I’m here fer? I want a fight.’

Ed knew all that Freedom was saying was right, but he could do nothing. He moved to Freedom and began to rub his shoulders, calming him as if he were an animal. ‘I know, I know, lad … maybe we’ll take it easy for a few days, huh? Maybe I pushed you too hard.’

Freedom laughed, rubbed Ed’s balding head. ‘I want a fight, Ed, that’s all.’

As they were about to climb into the car there was the sound of an owl hooting. Neither the young boy nor Ed paid any attention, but Freedom turned, suddenly alert. Then came a whistle, soft but shrill, and Freedom shaded his eyes to look up into the woods. He cupped his hands and whistled, and again came the high-pitched, single note, like a bird.

‘Gawd ‘elp us, get in the car, what yer doin’ now? Birdwatchin’? Come on, lad, let’s have breakfast, I’m starvin’ after all this exercise.’

Freedom jumped on to the running board of the car as Ed drove back to The Grange. He looked up to the woods and smiled, gave a small wave like a salute. Jesse and Rawnie knew he was aware that they were waiting, he had answered their call.

Evelyne had been up since six-thirty, eaten her breakfast in the kitchens and then begun her work in the library. Sir Charles had given her the job of repairing and cataloguing the vast collection of books. Since her arrival at The Grange, Evelyne had seen him only once, when he implied that he would employ her on condition that she have no contact with Freedom. Quietly and icily, he had told her he was prepared to make Freedom a champion, but if he discovered there was anything more in Freedom’s run from the train than the desire to thank her for her part in his acquittal, he would have no option but to destroy Freedom’s contract. He did not want any scandal, any repercussions or publicity in relation to the murder charges Freedom faced in Cardiff.

‘He ran once, let him try it again and I will wash my hands of him, is that clear?’

Evelyne understood the veiled threat and assured Sir Charles that she would work in the house as instructed, nothing more.

She was given a small room in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. She spent her days in the musty library, ate her meals with the servants. The housekeeper, Miss Balfour, was loathed by all of them. She ran The Grange like a military camp and God help anyone who did not knuckle under her regime. Due to the nature of Evelyne’s work, she was immediately set apart.

‘I have always interviewed the staff in the past, Miss Jones … However, as Sir Charles has already instructed you in your duties, make sure you carry them out to the letter.’

The housemaids’ and parlourmaids’ gossip bored Evelyne, and the rules and regulations they all abided by frustrated her. The house revolved around the periods when Sir Charles was in residence, his weekend house parties. Evelyne had no chance to see any of his high-society guests. All servants, unless they were actually in attendance, were told to stay out of sight. Evelyne felt trapped. Even to enjoy the beauty of their surroundings was forbidden; they were not allowed to use the grounds or walk among the rose gardens. The gulf betweeen ‘them’ and ‘us’ was brought home to Evelyne daily.

Her frustration mounted until she felt she would explode. This was not what she wanted, to be a servant. At least in the valley she had felt free, but here she was bound by such strict rules that even to be in the main hall was a sin. But her secret meetings with Freedom would have been judged a greater sin, were they discovered.

Freedom had also had the lecture from Sir Charles, but with a difference. Sir Charles had implied that Evelyne would be dismissed if he should hear so much as a whisper of an association between them.

Freda, now Mrs Ed Meadows, had tried to talk to Ed, tried to tell him that keeping the couple apart was asking for trouble. In his heart Ed knew she was right, but it was not only the cottage and his job that were at stake, there was the future champion’s career. ‘You got ter do what ‘is Lordship wants, Freda love, there’s no way round it.’

‘Ed, this is our home, Sir Charles won’t even know if they come and have a little supper with us now and then, just once a week, on her afternoon off…’

Ed huffed and puffed, but the suppers had become a regular weekly occurrence, and it was during these evenings that Evelyne had begun to teach Freedom to read and write.

They had been at The Grange almost four months, and tension lay close to the surface. Freda could feel it and it worried her. She hoped the four of them would discuss it today, it was Evelyne’s half-day off. Freda always cooked a roast on these occasions, and she had already begun laying the table. Ed paced up and down, unable to relax enough to put his carpet slippers on.

‘You know he’s ready ter fight, and we ain’t had a word from Sir Charles. He’s gettin’ hard ter handle, Freda, he knows ‘e’s ready an’ all. I just don’t know what else I can do …’

Evelyne arrived and tossed her coat aside. She sighed, and slumped into the fireside chair.

‘I’ve had enough of that Miss Balfour. The library’s nearly finished and she snoops after me, checking that I’ve done this or that. Well, she’ll not get me lugging buckets of coal up and down them stairs like the maids. She caught me in the drawing room, I was just looking at the paintings and she tells me I have no right to be in there. “I’m just looking at the paintings, Miss Balfour,” I tell her. “You’ve no right to look,” she says. Can you believe it, Freda? I said to her, “You don’t mind if I look out of my window and see the woods, the countryside, he don’t own them, does he?”’

Ed sighed, looking very glum. ‘They do, love, they do, far as the eye can see — all his Lordship’s land, he owns the lot.’

Evelyne turned to Ed with a furious look. ‘Well, he doesn’t own me!’

‘As long as you are in his employ, he does.’

Evelyne paced the tiny cottage while Freda finished setting the table. Ed flicked the curtains aside, wondering where Freedom was and hoping no one would see him coming to the cottage.

‘He’s late, he’s in a terrible mood, an’ all, can’t you talk to ‘im, Evie? Settle ‘im down, you know he’s taken to sleeping outside, made hisself some kind of tent? The lads don’t know what to make of him … where the hell is he? You got the time, Freda?’

Freda pointed to the clock, then checked to see how the chicken was cooking. Unlike everyone else, Freda was happy as a lark. The cottage, with its new curtains and loose covers, delighted her. ‘Oh, he’ll be here, he won’t miss seeing his Evie.’

Ed sighed. That was another thing, if Sir Charles found out about those two, there would be real trouble. He was up and down, jumpy as a ferret, worried someone would find out about these weekly meetings.

Evelyne took out Freedom’s exercise books, thumbed through the pages of looped, childish writing. ‘He won’t try half the time, you know. He should be able to read and write by now, but he won’t concentrate for more than a minute …’

Freda tittered, waved her wooden spoon. ‘His attention is too much on you, that’s why, darlink.’

Ed flicked the curtains again, muttered, and sat down opposite Evelyne.

She was shaking her head, still turning the pages. ‘Funny thing, he’s completely ambidextrous, and he’s no fool, got a wit about him, has me laughing …’

‘What? What you say ‘e’s got? Ambi what? Ill, you fink ‘e’s ill?’

With a giggle, Evelyne explained to Ed that she meant he could write with either hand, right or left.

‘Gawd ‘elp me, I been assumin’ he was a southpaw, but … Hey, wait ‘til I get him in action termorrow, ambidixious, that what you call it? Well, I never … look, Freda love, I’ll just go an’ see what ‘e’s doin’, all right, ducks?’

Freda raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Well, at least that cheered him up … Evie?’

Evelyne was staring into the fire, Freedom’s book still on her knee. Freda sat on the arm of her chair and hugged her.

‘What is it, darlink, you want to tell me?’

Evelyne kissed Freda’s hand. ‘I’m thinking of leaving, Freda, I feel as if I’m being buried alive. There’s a whole world out there, and I want… I want…’

‘What, Evie? What, do you think is so special out there?’

Confused, frustrated, Evelyne bit her lip. ‘I won’t know unless I try, but I want to teach, you know? And maybe I could get work that would fulfil me. Here, I’m just stifled.’

‘What about Freedom?’

Tears pricked Evelyne’s eyes, and she shook her head. ‘There’s no future for us, you must know that, and if Sir Charles knew we even saw each other … well, I don’t have to tell you what would happen.’

Freda kept quiet, knowing Evie had to talk, get it out of her system.

‘We meet on Sundays, oh, far away from this place, up in the woods. We walk, and he’s like a child. There’s a wild deer, and he calls to it and it comes over, nuzzles him and takes food from his hand. He knows the name of every flower, every creature, and sometimes it’s magic with him. He’s so gentle, caring, and those times I love him … He’s like no other man I’ve ever known, and yet, he won’t educate himself, he won’t better himself… I have to go away, Freda.’

Freda bent and kissed the top of Evelyne’s head as Ed burst into the cottage. ‘He’s gone, no sign of ‘im no place, the lads said they saw ‘im crossin’ the field at six, an’ ‘e had a bundle under ‘is arm. He’s run off … you better go back to the house, Evie, I’m going ter ‘ave ter get a search party out.’

‘Oh, Ed, don’t be stupid, he will be back! He will just have gone walking, you know the way he is — he knows it’s Evie’s supper with us.’

‘There’s a gypsy camp in the field behind the woods, I got to get to ‘im first. If the estate manager finds out, they’ll get the law on to ‘em. If they’re poachin’, there’ll be all hell let loose.’

Evelyne’s hands clenched in anger. ‘Ed, he came here of his own free will, he’ll not run out on you … for God’s sake don’t tell the game wardens, I’ll go and find him.’

Ed gripped her by the shoulders, tight. ‘You’ll do no such thing, ‘is Lordship’s back, arrived half an hour ago wiv a whole party of society people, I don’t want you gettin’ involved. My job’s on the line as it is, havin’ you meetin’ him here.’

It was Freda’s turn to confront Ed. ‘Ed, listen to her, she knows him better than anyone, he’ll be back, you know he will.’

‘Will he> Well, you go an’ tell that bitch, Miss Balfour. He took a bundle under his arm all right, two hams, a chicken and a turkey what they was preparin’ fer Sir Charles’ bleedin’ house guests. It ain’t me settin’ the gamekeepers on ‘im, but Miss bloody Balfour.’

Evelyne grabbed her coat and was halfway to the door.

‘Evie, darlin’, I’m sorry, don’t get me wrong, I trust him, Gawd ‘elp me, I love the lad, but … I been worried sick these last few weeks. I knew somethin’ was brewin’, I didn’t mean to sound off at you, you an’ him are welcome here any time.’

Evelyne gave him a small smile, then hurried back to The Grange. From her tiny window high in the roof she could see the flare of torches as the gamekeepers prepared to search the woods. She was saddened by Freedom’s foolishness, but at the same time it cemented her decision. She would have to leave.

The camp-fire was lit, piled high with logs stolen from The Grange’s wood-house. There were only four wagons, belonging to travellers on their way back from the Ascot races. Sitting in a semicircle around the fire, they ate the food Freedom had brought. There was beer and Jesse had two bottles of whisky. They were all in good humour, and one of the men took out his fiddle and began to play. Strung up on one of the wagons were rabbits, poached from the estate.

Jesse was wearing a new, dark pinstriped suit, and he was proud of it, flaunting his waistcoat, amusing them all as he clicked his heels and danced to the fiddle. There were gold rings on his fingers, and his heavy earring was of gold. He clapped his hands, and his whiter-than-white teeth gleamed in the firelight. ‘Will you rokka Romany, Freedom? Eh, ehe heyup yup?’

Freedom had been downing beer and whisky and now he lolled against the side of a wagon. He shook his head and waved for Jesse to continue. Jesse was making them all laugh at the fine man Freedom had turned into, living like a prince and being made to run each day to beat the motor vehicle …

Rawnie slipped to Freedom’s side. She still wore her brightly coloured skirts, her bangles and beads. Her thick, coal-black hair was braided and threaded with gold. The kohl around her eyes made them seem huge, like the tame deer that fed from Freedom’s hand. But she was thin, even gaunt, and she coughed constantly. ‘Are thee well, mun?’

Freedom smiled up at her and nodded, held out his hand for her to come and sit with him. She looked back at the arrogant, dancing Jesse. She wouldn’t come close.

‘Does he care for thee?’

She drew on the ever-present hand-rolled cigarette, releasing a cloud of smoke that all but obscured her face as she spoke in her low, husky voice. ‘He does … are thee with the paleface woman?’

Freedom smiled, tilting his head. ‘Ay, she’s my manushi?

A small boy with dark, flashing eyes and thick, black curly hair appeared behind Rawnie’s skirts. Freedom leaned forward and the child peeked around Rawnie and gave him a cheeky grin.

‘He be called Johnny … Johnny Mask, he’s a right bugger, we call him mask because you can belt the livin’ daylights out of him an’ he don’t ever care none.’

Freedom looked up at her as she touched the young boy’s head, gently. Then Johnny ran back to Jesse, clicked his heels, and the pair danced together.

‘He be Jesse’s boy, a pure Tatchery, then there are two more doshas, see them, on the vargo steps.’

Freedom looked over at the two little girls, hand in hand, watching the dancing. He stood up, watched Rawnie’s sad eyes. They were not her own, she did not even have to tell him … he held out his arms, wanting to hold her. She tossed her cigarette aside, stepping back so he could not touch her. ‘We’re moving to the races, north, we’ll join the clans. Jesse is leader now, but we need a strong-armed man, the fights are where the money is … livin’ like a king, maybe ye don’t need it.’

Her voice had become mocking. She rolled another cigarette, and as she lit it the flame illuminated her face, her haunted eyes. ‘Will thee travel with us, Freedom? See, there’s Chalida with no man beside her, she’s Romanchilde.’

Chalida, sitting with the two doshas, was a beautiful girl with her hair unbraided to show she was unmarried. She looked up, and Freedom gave her a small bow, then turned to Rawnie and shook his head. Before he could say a word, two gypsies ran to the fire and began stamping out the flames. They shouted and pointed into the darkness, and everyone began to run this way and that.

Four gamekeepers with blazing torches were moving towards the camp through the woods. They carried shotguns, and their tracker dogs strained at their leashes. Jesse began shouting instructions. Pans and bottles and equipment were swiftly packed, and the horses were dragged from their roped pen to harness to the wagons. The poached rabbits and pheasants were quickly hidden. The children screamed in terror as the gamekeepers crashed into the camp and released their dogs. For a moment Freedom was frozen, he couldn’t believe what was happening. One of the little doshas was hunched by a wagon, shrieking with fear as a dog snarled and snapped at her. In seconds Freedom was on his feet and at her side. He kicked the dog away and grabbed the child, lifted her into the wagon. ‘Call your men off, you bastards, call the dogs back …’

Jesse was already fighting with one of the gamekeepers. Freedom ran to a man he recognized, grabbed him by his lapels. ‘You call your men off or so help me God I’ll have your throat wrung, hear me … look at me, mun, you know me.’

Little Johnny Mask was beating back one of the dogs with a stick. Jesse had wrested a shotgun from the hands of one of the gamekeepers, and had turned it on the man Freedom held. ‘No … Jesse, no!’

He held the gun poised, finger on the trigger. Rawnie ran to his side and placed her hand over the barrel. ‘Freedom, get them out of the camp, tell them we’ll move out, we mean no harm …’

The gamekeepers, terrified, did not need to be asked twice. They backed off, calling their dogs to their sides. Freedom held the shotgun, keeping the men back, but he stood with them, not his own people.

It took only a short while before the wagons were ready. Jesse walked up to Freedom, carrying his son in his arms. ‘Come with us, brother, leave with us.’

Past antagonisms forgotten, Freedom held Jesse close, and they kissed each other on both cheeks. From his pocket Jesse took a gold coin, pressed it into Freedom’s hand. ‘Kushti rardi, brother.’

The wagons moved out, and the gamekeepers made their way back down the hill to The Grange. The men were silent, their dogs under control. Freedom walked slightly ahead of them, his thoughts with his people. As they came out of the wood he saw below him, glistening like a mirage, The Grange, lit by a multitude of chandeliers. His anger rose up and he stiffened. They had treated his people no better than dogs.

‘Come on, move on, bloody gyppo, get on back …’ In an instant Freedom swung around and knocked the man out, took his shotgun and broke it into pieces. Then he took off so fast none of them had a hope of keeping up with him … the night enveloped him, and he could no longer be seen or heard.

The gamekeepers ran into the courtyard and reported to the chief warden. ‘Bastard took off after his people, bloody gyppo should never have been brought here in the first place.’

Evelyne could hear them and their dogs clearly. Watching from her litde window, she saw the police wagon arrive, and she turned back to her cot bed. So Ed had been right, he had run. She was feeling queasy, and she reached for her dressing-gown, slipped quietly along the corridor to the bathroom she shared with the other servants. Fighting her dizziness, she was violently sick. More than ever she felt she must leave The Grange.

As she returned to her room, she found two housemaids whispering together near her bedroom door. One of them turned to Evelyne.

‘Oh, Evie, they say the gyppo fighter’s run off, half-killed the gamekeepers, tried to strangle one, and him what was almost hung afore … and he stole the dinner cook was preparing for Sir Charles, what a to-do.’

Miss Balfour appeared, wearing a hairnet, tight-lipped, her skin wrinkled like a prune. ‘Back to bed, all of you, now. This has nothing to do with you, back to bed this instant.’

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.

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.

Chapter 18

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?’

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.’

Chapter 19

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.

On all questions of cloth, texture and style, Freedom allowed Sir Charles to dominate him. He was unbelievably pernickety, feeling each piece of cloth and taking it to the daylight to examine it.

‘Would it be possible, sir, to have a camelhair coat?’ Sir Charles didn’t even reply to this, just let his monocle pop out in disgust. The fellow would be wanting a velvet collar next.

Freedom’s feet were measured for boots and shoes, and Sir Charles put pressure on the makers to complete them as soon as possible.

The Jermyn Street flat consisted of a single bedroom, a valet’s room, a dining room and a small sitting room. There was no kitchen, one either sent out for food or dined out. Dewhurst was installed in the flat and instructed to make sure Mr Stubbs never ate with a serving spoon again. He was to be shown how to eat like a gentleman with the correct tableware, and to be taught about wines.

Ed was amazed to see Freedom allowing himself to be carted around like a show-horse without a murmur. Not once did he complain, and only kicked up a fuss when it was suggested that he have his hair cut. This became a major argument, and eventually Sir Charles attempted a compromise.

‘All right, old chap, we’ll find a happy medium — won’t have you sheared, just a trim, it’s frightfully long and could do with a simple trim, what do you say?’

Freedom stared gloomily at his reflection and stubbornly refused to have it cut. They couldn’t say it would get in the way when he was boxing, because it would be tied back with a leather thong. Ed knew what would happen if Freedom’s temper was roused so he quietly suggested to Sir Charles that the long hair could be a unique advantage in being so unusual. At last Sir Charles acquiesced, and Freedom grinned. It wasn’t that he minded taking care of it, he loved having it washed, loved his head being massaged, and loved choosing perfumes to use on it.

One week later Freedom stood looking at himself in the bedroom mirror. After three attempts to tie Freedom’s tie, Dewhurst was finally satisfied, and stood back to admire his work. He had to admit the man looked splendid, apart from the hair, of course, which went without saying. With that hair and the colour of his skin Freedom could never be taken for a gentleman. Yet somehow he looked almost regal. He now had a complete wardrobe of suits, shirts, ties, overcoats, boots and underwear.

Sir Charles rested his chin on the top of his cane and looked up as Freedom entered, then beamed. Now they could dine at White’s. Ed gaped and looked with renewed interest at Freedom. He was a fine looking fella, and Ed hid a smile. The lad was certainly a looker, just like the movie idol, Valentino, no doubt about it.

‘I wonder, Sir Charles, if you’ve had any word from Miss Evelyne?’

Sir Charles was nonplussed for a moment, and Ed gave Freedom a shifty look. ‘He means Miss Jones, yer know, sir, from Cardiff, she was stayin’ at The Grange wiv us.’

‘You see, she was my girl, an’ I’m worried about her.’

Sir Charles pursed his lips. ‘Miss Jones? Is that who you’re referring to, Miss Jones? Good God, man, I’ve absolutely no idea where on earth she is, she left weeks ago. Besides, I don’t like this “my girl” thing at all. If you recall your words on oath in the witness stand in Cardiff, you categorically denied any relationship with Miss Jones, are you now telling me you lied?’

Freedom’s hands were clenched at his sides, and Ed began to sweat.

‘I never lied, sir, it was the truth, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have no feelings for her. That came after the court case, she’s my wife.’

Sir Charles’ monocle popped out and he had to sit down. He repeated the word.

‘Wife …? Wife? Ed, did you know about this? I find it all very disturbing. When Miss Jones left, she made no mention of you being married.’

Ed was so perplexed he didn’t know which way to turn and he could see Freedom’s temper rising. ‘Now, now, Freedom, that might be stretchin’ it a bit far, they’re not married, sir, not in a church, they did some Romany thing.’

In an icy voice Sir Charles reminded Freedom again of what he had said in court, on oath. He went on to inform him of the mounting costs of his new wardrobe, not to mention the lodgings, the training, wages for Ed and the two corner men, everything provided for Freedom on the simple condition that he box. Freedom was fighting to hold on to his temper as he faced Sir Charles.

‘I reckon, sir, that I done that, and I am indebted to you, course I am — but that don’t mean I am owned by you.’

This caused Sir Charles to throw his hands up in horror, it was all getting really out of hand. ‘Your contract with myself is legal and binding. With reference to Miss Jones, she asked to leave The Grange the day before you yourself left. Surely if she had felt any overwhelming emotional tie to you she would have told you herself? Now, I think we really must forget all this nonsense, I have a table booked for nine-fifteen and I am looking forward to introducing you to my guests.’

He swept out, signalling for Ed to follow him. They walked a short way along the street together, Sir Charles’ manner deathly cold. ‘Make sure he’s there, will you, old chap, maybe you should tell him what he’ll be worth if he wins the title. He’ll get a purse of near two hundred. Tell him that and we’ll see how much this wretched woman means to him.’

Ed went slowly back up in the small, gilded lift. He sat down next to Freedom and patted his knee like a father. It was impossible to know what Freedom was thinking, his face was mask-like, the black eyes expressionless, he even seemed relaxed. He stared down at his big hands and he spoke softly, as if he was miles away. ‘We have a saying, an old Romany saying, that if you love something, you must set it free; if it returns to you it is yours, if it doesn’t then it never was …’

Poor Ed didn’t really know what to do. He couldn’t afford to lose his job, and Sir Charles was such an odd man, Ed never knew which way he would turn. ‘Freedom, lad, ‘is Lordship’s investin’ a lot of money in you, and ‘e don’t want no dirty publicity ‘bout you an’ that murder investigation.’

Freedom protested his innocence, and Ed sighed. ‘He’s adamant about it, an’ you know without ‘im you would be swingin’ fer that murder, you know that. See, you’ll be meetin’ all kinds of people now, society, like, perhaps even the prince himself, they can’t ‘ave no scandal.’

Freedom frightened Ed with his sly, strange smile. ‘He won’t want me, though, if I lose the title, mun, will he?’

Ed shouted at him that he would have two hundred pounds purse money if he won. ‘Gawd ‘elp me, two hundred pounds, you know how many years I gotta work ter make that much?’

Freedom still wore that smile and Ed was scared, not of what Freedom might do to him, but because he knew Freedom didn’t really care about money.

‘So what happens if we was to find ‘er, and she not want you? Eh?’

Freedom moved his hands like a bird, she could fly away, do as she wanted, but he had to see her.

Evelyne had found work in a small bookshop in Charing Cross Road. The owner was an eccentric gentleman called Arnold Snodgrass. He wore a crumpled, stained suit, and was never without a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. His yellow teeth could be seen when he spoke in his strange, theatrical voice.

The shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with books, manuscripts and papers. The stench of cats and musty, ageing paper was at first nauseating. Evelyne was so dizzy at times she had to sit down on the stepladder.

Old Snoddy was unaware of her, as he was of the stench. ‘Listen to this, dear heart, a little snippet of interest — did you know that Shakespeare, that wondrous bard, actually made up the word “lonely”? Imagine him sitting at his desk with his quill and thinking it up … alone … lone … lonely … now first play he used this new word was … Coriolanus, fascinating, what? Wonderful play … lonely.”. ’

Evelyne picked up a volume so heavy she could only just carry it from one side of the shop to the other. She sighed, her own loneliness taking precedence over Mr Snodgrass’ snippet.

The next thing she knew Mrs Harris was standing over her burning one of Snoddy’s own quill pens. Mrs Harris was a round, motherly woman who cleaned the shop and back room as best she could, and she also cleaned various other shops in the same area.

‘She’s comin’ round now, sir. What ‘appened, did she fall or what? It’s them ‘eavy volumes she’s carrying round.’

Snoddy slurped his morning tea and shrugged, not interested in the slightest in the health of his assistant. He was buried in Coriolanus, still musing about his discovery.

‘Come on, ducks, best get you home an’ put yer feet up, ‘e won’t notice yer gorn, ‘e don’t know what day it is.’

Mrs Harris was shocked when she saw where Evelyne was living. ‘Lord luv-a-duck, yer can’t swing a cat in ‘ere, and by the looks of it it’s damp, shockin’ … have you no place even to boil a cup of tea?’

Evelyne lay on her bed, wanting to cry, but she shrugged off Mrs Harris’ questions. ‘I’m saving my money, I want to go to night classes, get my teacher’s diploma, it’s all right.’

Mrs Harris looked her over and then felt her forehead. ‘You’re running’ a bit of a fever, ducks, maybe you should see a doctor.’

Evelyne buttoned her blouse, straightened her skirt and came out from behind the screen. The doctor was writing a prescription. She sat down and opened her purse, counted out the one shilling and sixpence her visit would cost.

‘You must eat fresh vegetables, get your strength up, but there’s nothing wrong that rest and a good diet won’t put right. I wouldn’t lift anything heavy, just in case … this is a tonic, you should come back for regular check-ups until the birth.’

Evelyne blinked, swallowed hard. ‘Beg pardon, sir, what did you say?’

When Evelyne came out into the waiting room, Mrs Harris rose to her feet, clutching her big cloth shopping bag, bulging with groceries. The girl looked worse now than when she had gone in. ‘It’s nuffink serious, is it, ducks?’

Evelyne shook her head, biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry. Mrs Harris helped her into her coat, feeling sorry for her, ‘You come round and ‘ave supper at my place, no need to go back to yer work, Snoddy’s got ‘is brandy out so he won’t know if you was workin’ or not.’

Sitting beside Mrs Harris on the tram, Evelyne suddenly blurted it all out. ‘I’m having a baby, that’s what he told me, but I can’t be, I just can’t be …’

Mrs Harris sighed, she’d guessed as much, but Miss Jones was such a nice girl, very proper, and always so well dressed, so neat and tidy. ‘Well, love, there’s only one way to make one, have you been doing it? Have you got a young man?’

The floodgates opened, and Evelyne sobbed her heart out on top of the tram. She was still in floods of tears by the time they were sitting in Mrs Harris’ kitchen.

‘Yer see, ducks, in some cases yer can go on gettin’ yer monthly bleedin’ and still be carryin’, how far gone are you, did he say?’

‘He reckoned about five months, but I just can’t be, I can’t.”

Mrs Harris poured thick, strong tea, spooned in the sugar and eased her bulk into a fireside chair. ‘Well, if yer that far gone there’s no gettin’ rid of it — mind you, there’s some that would try … Drink yer tea now, don’t go gettin’ all upset again, we’ll sort it all out … but yer won’t be able to lift no more Shakespeare, that’s fer sure.’

With seven children of her own, Mrs Harris needed Evelyne like a hole in the head. Her two-up-two-down was bursting at the seams. To help make ends meet her husband Ted worked nights at the gasworks, and during the day in a carpenter’s shop. When he came home he found his missus stewing up a large pan of soup, the brood sitting round the kitchen table.

‘We got a house guest, Ted. Now before you hit the roof, she’s able to pay us threepence a week rent … She’s in the family way, and she’s no one else to turn to. I’ve put her in the front room on the sofa.’

‘Gawd ‘elp us, woman, how we gonna fit in? Even with threepence extra?’

Covering the table with newspaper, Mrs Harris set out the cutlery. Ted sat down at the table, sighing. He was such a good-natured soul. ‘You know, ducks, you’d take in a lame donkey if he was homeless, but we got to think of the kids …’

His wife pulled up a chair and held his calloused hand. ‘Remember our youngest, little Dora? Remember how I was all set to have a gin bath at Widow Smith’s in the Hollow?’

Ted nodded, and kissed her big red cheek. Mrs Harris had been beside herself when she had discovered she was pregnant again, and had not said a word to Ted, but made up her mind to get rid of it. Ted had arrived home unexpectedly from work, knowing the kids were out, knowing she would be at home. ‘Come here, you big old fool,’ he had said, ‘you fink after sixteen years of marriage I don’t know when you’re in the family way? Now, gel, it’s gonna be tough on us, but we’ll manage, and I’ve got a name, it’ll be a girl if there’s anything in the law of averages, and we’ll call her Dora … now give us a cuppa.’

‘Evelyne’s ever such a nice gel,’ Mrs Harris went on, ‘an’ I can leave our Dora wiv her until her baby’s born, that’ll save us a few coppers, won’t have ter farm her out whilst I do me cleanin’.’

Ted spooned up the hot soup, dipped a chunk of bread in the bowl and sucked on it. ‘An’ what ‘appens when the baby’s born, Ma? What’s she gonna do then?’

‘Oh, Ted, get on wiv yer, we’ll face that when it comes, an’ she can read an’ write, she can teach the little ‘uns their schoolin’ …’

Evelyne entered the hot, stuffy kitchen, and Ted gave her a wide smile, held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the family, gel, sit down, the missus’ll take right care of yer, an’ we’ll all fit in somehow.’

Evelyne had never known such friendliness, such warmth and love, she was once more in the bosom of a family. The seven Harris children were rowdy, scruffy, and as open and friendly as their parents. Baby Dora, just eighteen months old, was left in Evelyne’s care while Mrs Harris went out cleaning.

Exhausted from a long day’s hard work, Mrs Harris sat by the fire while Evelyne changed Dora’s nappy, cooing and making the baby gurgle with laughter. Evelyne’s pregnancy had advanced quickly, and Mrs Harris began to think the doctor could have miscalculated. Evelyne was a big girl, and looking at her now Mrs Harris reckoned the baby was probably more like seven months.

Evelyne had not said one word about the father, or what she would do when the child was born.

‘Will you keep the baby, Evie, ducks?’ Evelyne rocked little Dora in her arms. ‘Oh, yes, I couldn’t part with him, couldn’t even think about it.’

‘Well, it won’t be easy yer know, love, woman on ‘er own, you could have the baby adopted, there’s many wivout that would give it a good home.’

Evelyne pursed her lips. ‘There’ll be no one bringing my son up but me, I’ll find a way, I’ll get work.’

‘You never talk of the father, an’ you’re so sure it’s a boy yer carryin’ … does he know, lovey? About the baby?’

Whenever Mrs Harris mentioned the baby’s father she saw Evelyne withdraw into herself. She had grown used to Evelyne, the way she could clam up. ‘Do you love ‘im still? Is ‘e a society man, that what it is?’

Evelyne busied herself with Dora, but Mrs Harris battled on. ‘Only, a first-born is important to a man, an’ you seem so sure you’ve got a son inside you, d’yer not want ter contact ‘im?’

She watched Evelyne put little Dora into her crib, an old orange box, and kiss the child lovingly. Her heart went out to the girl, especially when she turned with tears in her eyes. ‘I just don’t know what to do, I don’t, but … feeling the baby inside me, well, I think more and more of him, but I just don’t know what to do …’

Evelyne did think of Freedom; every night before she slept she saw his face. Leaving him the way she had was cruel, she knew it, and the more she thought of the way she had treated him the more ashamed she was. She decided to write to Freda, tell her about the baby, but ask her not to say anything to Freedom. She would want to tell him herself.

As soon as Freda received Evelyne’s letter, she wrote back, knowing she shouldn’t, giving Freedom’s address in Jermyn Street. She also set about making baby clothes, but said nothing to Ed in her letter to him. She did as Evelyne asked, and kept the secret.

Evelyne opened Freda’s letter in the park while little Dora was asleep in the pram. She read that Freedom was waiting for acceptance to fight the British Heavyweight Champion, Micky Morgan, how he had beaten the Irish contender, and that they were all on tenterhooks waiting for the promoters to give the word.

Seeing his name in writing, Evelyne’s heart missed a beat. She knew she had been a fool. She touched her swollen belly, pictured Freedom’s face. She could almost laugh at herself, she who had wanted a better life was now living in the slums, without a job, and wheeling someone else’s baby around. Then she felt a bit guilty. Mrs Harris might be poor, but she was like a second mother to Evelyne. Poverty was all around them, but Evelyne had never said a word about her legacy. It had become an obsession with her, she scrimped and saved every farthing, and yet she had more money in the post office than the Harrises ever dreamed of. Originally it had been intended to pay for her own education, but now it would be for her son’s. She blushed with shame, but then argued with herself that she paid her way, she wasn’t taking the Harrises’ charity, just their love.

Every single head turned as Freedom entered the Cafe Royal. Women particularly noticed him, towering over every other man, even the elegant Sir Charles went unnoticed. All eyes focused on Freedom.

Their table was very prominent, chosen for that specific reason, just as the table at White’s had been the night before. The whispers spread as the diners recognized Sir Charles and knew that the handsome man with him must be his contender. The sporting sections had been full of coverage of the forthcoming British title fight, including Pat Murphy’s unprecedented knockout. The venue had been changed from the National Sporting Club to the Albert Hall, and the fight delayed for two months as posters and tickets were altered and reprinted. The pre-fight sales were already the biggest in English history, and it was rumoured that tickets were scarce now and were becoming a ‘must’. It was also rumoured that the Prince of Wales himself would be the guest of Sir Charles and Lord Livermore.

Much of the press coverage was down to Sir Charles negotiating long and hard with the promoters, who wanted to recoup their losses from the Pat Murphy knockout, which included billboards, posters, tickets, et cetera. With the larger showcase of the Albert Hall, the losses were soon made up. Sir Charles announced that a quarter of the profits would be given to charity, thus giving the match the seal of approval for society to be there.

The British Heavyweight Champion himself kept well out of the limelight. Sir Charles had no intention of keeping Freedom under wraps, and was betting heavily on the champion as well, intending to cover his losses should Freedom lose. He loved the fuss, the glamour and the attention, basked in it, and paraded Freedom as if he were a prize hunter on a rein. Freedom held up well, his dark eyes flashing, his smile captivating everyone. His romantic Romany origins were well publicized, and the women fluttered and pretended to swoon when he kissed their hands.

Tonight, at the Cafe Royal, Freedom had to stand for a round of applause as the band leader fnoved the spotlight on to Sir Charles’ table.

Poor Ed shuddered with embarrassment as Sir Charles’ generosity had not included him and he was self-conscious in his ill-fitting suits and old shirt. Realizing that the slight was intended, he stepped aside from now until the last stages of his training. He contented himself instead with reading about his golden boy in the society columns.

Freda was delighted when Ed sent for her to come to town. She had worked her fingers raw, sewing clothes for herself, hoping to be there on the big night. She set off from The Grange as excited as a child.

When Ed met her at the station she was a trifle disappointed to discover that they had to travel by public transport, and even further let down to find that they had to stay with Ed’s family, who were waiting for them with tea all ready on the table. Ed’s brother and his wife and kids greeted the new sister-in-law with suspicion at first, but then made her welcome. They were East Enders and, although Freda never said a word, they were obviously living from hand to mouth. She and Ed were given the front room to sleep in, and it was not until late evening that Freda had a chance to talk to Ed in privacy.

‘Well, darlink, how is Freedom? Will we all have tickets for the fight?’

Ed was hesitant at first, not as enthusiastic as she had expected. In truth, his nose was very much out of joint. Freedom seemed to have changed. Only a short while ago Ed couldn’t have got him to put a tie round his neck, and now he was never without one. Freedom had also been very cold and aloof with Ed, and that hurt him. He didn’t like to mention it to Freda, but she detected he was not too happy.

‘You won’t recognize ‘im, Freda, ‘e looks like a toff an’ ‘e’s actin’ like one, out every night gallivantin’ around the town, showin’ ‘imself off to everybody. He should be trainin’, night an’ day. You don’t see this Micky out in the clubs, no way, he’ll be trainin’ mornin’, noon an’ night.’

Freda made all the right noises and bided her time. She didn’t like to mention Evelyne now.

‘I’m worried, Freda, see, I know ‘is Lordship, next minute the lad’ll believe in ‘is own publicity, believe that Sir’s ‘is closest friend, but if ‘e loses he won’t see ‘im fer dust, an’ ‘e’ll lose, Freda, mark my words ‘e’ll lose, ‘e can’t go on like this. I been round three times an’ ‘e’s still in bed at twelve o’clock, him what was out at the crack of dawn at The Grange.’

Patting his hand and kissing his cheek, Freda assured him that she would have a word with Freedom when she saw him.

‘You’ll need an appointment, Freda, see if ‘e can’t fit you in between ‘is barber an’ ‘is tailor.’

Often at night Freedom would walk along Jermyn Street and cross into St James’s Park. Climbing over the railings he would run silently round and round, or sit for hours staring at the sleeping pelicans. Then when he had exhausted himself he would return to Jermyn Street. The running eased his restlessness, his feeling of being cooped up, of being on display, a fairground amusement. The women who pawed him only made him long for his Evie, and the pain inside him grew worse and worse instead of easing, but he said nothing, told no one.

Dewhurst woke Freedom to say that Mr Meadows and his wife had called, and would return later that afternoon for tea. Then he ran Freedom’s bath and began to lay out his clothes to wear for luncheon.

Mrs Harris could tell something was up, Evie was as bright as a button. She had also washed her hair and let out her best coat. She kept on asking how she looked, did she look ugly?

‘Lord love us, gel, there’s nothing more beautiful than a woman with a baby in her, you got a glow … are you off visitin’?’

Evelyne gave a tiny smile.

‘Well, you tell ‘im from me, ducks, he’s got a special woman, you go to him, bring ‘im back for supper an’ all, go on wiv you, you’ve waited long enough as it is …’

Evelyne caught the tram into London’s West End. Winter was coming on fast, and she hugged her coat around her. She got off the tram outside the big store in Piccadilly, Swan and Edgar. The windows were all lit up, and one of them was filled with baby clothes and cradles. She peered into the brighdy lit window. Such beautiful things, the toys, the clothes. She couldn’t move away, she found herself smiling with pleasure, with excitement at the thought of seeing Freedom again. She could visualize him so clearly, in his old cap and baggy trousers, running across the fields, and she couldn’t understand why she was crying, it was so foolish of her, and in a public place, too.

She bathed her face and checked her appearance in the ladies’ powder room inside the store, then nervously enquired the way to Jermyn Street. She was surprised to find it in the heart of the West End, having expected it to be a tram journey away. She was directed across Piccadilly, past a very fashionable shop, and down a small alley alongside a church. So this was where Freedom was staying. Evelyne stood in Jermyn Street taking in the rows of small shops selling soap, the tailors, the barbers.

Freedom stepped down from the motorcar and held out his hand to help two women from the back of the car. Evelyne could hardly believe her eyes, was it Freedom? She inched further forward, trying to see round the open door of the car. He was wearing a long, charcoal-grey overcoat, with a wide fur collar slightly turned up around his neck, and a white silk scarf. He laughed, throwing his head back, as one of the women pulled at the scarf and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

Dodging through the shoppers, Evelyne huddled in a doorway and watched as he held out first one arm, then the other, for the women to take. They fought for his attention. Being so tall he had to bend down to listen to what one of them had to say, and she took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. Evelyne gasped and stepped forward for a better view, then dodged quickly back as the three moved towards the building. A uniformed doorman stepped out and doffed his cap to them, holding the door open wide. As they went inside and the glittering doors closed behind them, Evelyne ran the few yards to the entrance, and peered through the doors in time to see them standing by a lift.

Freedom pressed the lift button. His head was aching from drinking too much champagne, but Dewhurst would have coffee ready. He was supposed to be training, but he would make up for it in the morning. As the lift gates opened he had a strange tingling sensation like an icy hand down his spine, and he whipped round, his scarf flying, ran to the doors and pulled them open. ‘Evie? Evie …?’

He stared along the crowded, fashionable street, then shook his head. He must be drunk. The door swung to and fro, and he returned to the women.

‘Oh, Freedom, we simply must take you to tea at the Ritz, say you will? Pretty please?’

He gave her a nasty, cold stare, gritted his teeth.

‘Pretty please, ger in, let me show you my Ritz!’

The two of them giggled at his awful mood, and they cuddled close to him, clinging to his arms. They felt like a pair of monkeys to him, they loved to scratch him with their long, red-painted fingernails. Still, they helped him to forget, forget Evie.

Ted Harris heard Evelyne come in, and opened the kitchen door.

‘Evie, that you, ducks? A cabbie came round wiv a parcel for you, here, see, cab all by itself, no one inside.’

Evelyne took the parcel but wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘You all right, ducks? Feelin’ poorly, are you?’

‘I’m fine, I’ll just rest, I’ll see to the children’s tea in a minute.’

Ted watched her hurry along the passage to her room. She was so pale, it worried him.

In the room Evelyne opened Miss Freda’s gifts. The tiny baby clothes, so perfectly made, were perhaps not in the colours she would have chosen, but they were beautiful. There was a little note in the parcel, but the writing was so bad that it took Evelyne ages to decipher what Freda had written.

‘In haste, darling, I will come and see you. God bless you and keep you well. Yours, Freda.’

Freda’s mouth seemed to be out of control, it kept dropping open as she sat and watched Freedom lounging on the sofa opposite her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, she had noticed that right at the start, as soon as they had arrived. He was being flippant and amusing, and from his shoes to his shining hair he was so well-groomed she would never have known him.

‘Lads reckon you’ll be having to start work first thing Monday, Freedom?’

Freda knew what Ed was going on about, but Freedom seemed to pay him little attention. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and asked Ed if he would go down to the teashop and order something for them.

An extremely disgruntled Ed departed, leaving Freedom and Freda alone together. They sat in silence for a minute, Freedom staring down at his shiny boots and Freda looking at the curtains, reckoning the material would cost at least four or five shillings a yard. He. wanted to talk to her, desperately needed to talk to someone, but he just didn’t know how to begin.

Eventually he rose to his feet and picked up his walking stick, tossed it in the air and then showed Freda the silver handle. ‘See, it’s a boxing glove, Miss Freda.’

She looked, not that she was particularly interested. It was Freedom, he had changed, and she couldn’t speak to him any more.

‘Yes, Sir Charles give it to me, bought it for me, he likes buyin’ things, yes he does, I reckon he got me cheap, though … Well ta-ra, Dewhurst’ll see to your needs.’

He gave a low bow and was gone.

That night, Freda agreed with Ed that Freedom had changed. She couldn’t talk to him, not in the old way, it was as if he was a stranger.

Poor Ed was at a loss, ‘It’s the way ‘e ‘as of making you not know what ‘e’s thinkin’, what ‘e’s feelin’ … ‘e told me they was married, did I tell you that? Yes, ‘e said Evie an’ ‘im was married, not a proper service like ours, some Romany thing they just did together — becomin’ a real ladies,’ man now, though!’

This was Freda’s moment to ask if Freedom was missing Evelyne, wanted to see her at all. ‘Does he still ask after Evie, Ed?’

Ed replied in a mutter that Sir Charles had forbidden it, in case a scandal about the trial got out. ‘ ‘E was on a murder charge. You think the prince an’ all those society people’d be sittin’ pawin’ at ‘im if they knew that? It’s best Evie’s name never crops up.’

Freda couldn’t bring herself to tell Ed about Evie’s letter, about the baby. If anything it would cause an even greater scandal.

Sir Charles was staying at the Savile Club, and Ed went to meet him there.

‘He’s not the same lad, guv, shows no interest, an’ ‘e’s not comin’ to the gym, I was wonderin’ if you could ‘ave a word wiv ‘im, seein’ as you’re takin’ ‘im out an’ about … Only, if we don’t get ‘im ter buckle down ‘e’ll lose the championship an’ we’ll both be left — if you’ll pardon the expression — we’ll both be left lookin’ like bleedin’ idiots.’

‘Ed, what do you take me for, I’ve not seen him in over a week! Good God, man, I’m the first to know that a fighter mustn’t, as you say, burn up his wick, tell him to come to the Pelican tonight, and you too, Ed.’

Freedom was late arriving at the club, which annoyed Sir Charles, who had checked his watch three times. There was a good snooker game going on in one of the annexes, and he saw Freedom strolling along, watching the players.

‘Here he is now, Ed, leave it to me.’

When he joined them Freedom asked the waiter for a beer, then leaned back in his chair, rocking it on its back legs.

‘Thinking of bringing in a sparring partner, just to work you up for the big day, what do you say?’

For a reply he got a shrug of the shoulders. Freedom seemed more interested in the snooker. Staring at him through his monocle, Sir Charles lit a cigar, puffed on it.

‘Ed here tells me you’re below par. That true, feeling off colour, are you?’

Again the annoying shrug of Freedom’s shoulders as he murmured that if Ed had said it then it must be true. Sir Charles had had enough, he leaned forward and snapped at Freedom in icy tones, ‘When you feel you can talk, please contact me. I’m afraid I have better things to do with my time than to sit here and be insulted. You may believe I own you, so be it, but I am not prepared to be treated like a pimp, pull yourself together, lad, or I will throw your contract back in your face, is that clear?’ He walked briskly away from the table without a backward glance.

Wanting to weep, Ed stared sorrowfully into his beer. How could Freedom do this to him after all the love and hard work Ed had put into him? ‘You just kicked me down, you know that, lad? I dunno why you done this to me, you could be the next British champion, I know it, but not this way. You’re breakin’ my ‘eart.’

Shoving Freedom’s hand away he stumbled from the table, leaving Freedom sitting alone in the pit.

Outside the club an old, bent man was sweeping the pavement, where the sawdust had travelled on the gents’ shoes into the road. The old chap didn’t seem to notice Freedom, and almost ran the brush over his shoes.

‘Aw, sorry about that, sir, here, allow me … you a fightin’ mun are ye?’

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he was about to bend down to dust Freedom’s shoes. He looked up for a moment. His bruiser’s face was wrinkled, and he had cauliflower ears, a broken nose.

‘Hammer, it’s you, isn’t it? Dai Thomas, Hammerhead?’

The old boy chuckled and wagged his head, spat on his fists and held them up.

‘Ay, lad, that’s me all right.’

With a toothless grin he looked into Freedom’s face with no sign of recognition. Freedom’s heart went out to him, he looked at all the traffic heading towards Piccadilly. ‘Where can a mun get a cup of tea this time of night?’ Hammer waved his brush to a small alley, and accepted Freedom’s offer to accompany him there. He also accepted the steaming bowl of soup Freedom placed before him. He sucked at the bread, making loud noises as he slurped the thick soup. He wiped the bowl with his crust until it glistened. He made no reply when Freedom asked how long he had been in London. But his face lit up when the ham and eggs followed, then he turned sly.

‘What are you after? Why you buying all this for me, eh?’

He raised the fork and tucked into the ham, not waiting for a reply. At least, not until he had filled his belly.

‘I’m Freedom Stubbs.’

Freedom stared at Hammer, did he remember? Know him? Hate him? He could clearly recall the man as he had been, arms up in the air, swaggering in his corner all those years ago in Cardiff. The cafe owner slapped his fat thigh and went behind the counter, delving underneath for newspapers. ‘By Christ, I thought I recognized yer. Will yer look at this, this is the man that knocked out Pat Murphy just the other month.’

‘Gawd almighty, I know you, this is him that knocked me teeth down me throat, remember me always talkin’ of the bout, this is the mun that did it.’ Hammer seemed flooded with renewed energy, he was up on his feet, prancing around on the sawdust floor. Freedom had expected the old man to go for him, but there was no animosity, more hero-worship. He thudded round to stand by Freedom’s side, his big fist came down on the shoulder of Freedom’s expensive overcoat and gripped it hard. ‘Now then, mun, you’ll have one hell of a bout with Micky, lemme tell you, I see ‘im box, oh, must be four, five years ago. He was just a kid, but ‘e’s got hands like spades, and they hurt.’

Some old boxers sitting in the cafe began to take notice, pulling their chairs closer to listen. Hammer basked in Freedom’s glory. ‘I went down so hard they never thought I’d be comin’ round, three-quarters of an hour I was out, out for more than the count, eh?’

By the time Freedom and Hammer walked back towards the Pelican Club, they had their arms about each other’s shoulders, the best of friends, buddies. Hammer collected his broom from the club’s doorway.

‘Handle yerself well, son, don’t want to see you on the other end of one of these, well, not yet, anyway. Could you see your way to getting me a ticket for the Albert Hall? I’d like to be there to see you thrash the Liverpudlian. Be a proud day for me to say I went down to the British champ …’

Freedom promised to send him a ticket, then he hesitated. ‘Don’t put yer money on me, Hammer.’

Hammer grabbed Freedom’s arm, and his bent body straightened. Through globs of spittle at the side of his mouth he swore at Freedom, almost pushed him off his feet.

‘That’s not fighter’s talk, what’s the matter with you, lad? I’d have given me life for an opportunity like you got, any mun would — I know I would. What’s up with ye?’

To Hammer, of all people, the man Freedom had sent sprawling, he opened up, near to tears. ‘They own me, mun, own me, an’ I’m through, there won’t be no fight.’

Hammer’s chin wobbled, and tears came into his already watery eyes. He looked at Freedom with disgust, thudded his fist into his own chest. ‘Nobody owns a fighter’s heart, mun, you throw the fight and you’ll not live with yourself. Take the fancy clothes away and you’re a gyppo. But win the title an’ you’re a champion.’ Hammer stepped aside as three gents came out of the club and slipped him a few coppers. He immediately started sweeping the sawdust-covered pavement again. Freedom walked away, he didn’t look back, he couldn’t.

Mrs Harris could hear Evie down in the kitchen. She pulled on her worn coat over her nightdress and went downstairs.

‘All right, are you, lovey? Fancy a cup of tea?’

Evelyne turned her face away, not wanting her friend to see she had been crying. They had not spoken of what had happened in Jermyn Street, there had been no need. Evelyne had been so quiet that Mrs Harris knew something had gone wrong.

‘There’s nothing to say, just… I saw him, and, well, he’s not the man I knew, and I know he wouldn’t want me, I know.’

Mrs Harris put the kettle on and stoked up the fire, questioned her no further. She sighed, it looked as though they would have their guest to stay for a long time. ‘Whatever ‘appens, ducks, this is your home now, yours and the baby’s, so put your mind at rest on that.’

Evelyne hugged the big, kind woman, and the strong arms held her tight.

‘There’s a good gel, you’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

In the cold light of dawn Freda woke to see Ed standing by the window. He was dressed, ready to go out, and she put out her hand, but he didn’t take it. She watched his depressed, squat figure walking down the street. The milk cart began its round, the horse clip-clopping out of the dairy halfway down the road. She made up her mind then and there that she would go and see Evelyne. Not just for the girl, but for herself and Ed too, if Evelyne could make Freedom see sense then she would see him, whether Ed liked it or not.

Sir Charles laid a neat ledger in front of Freedom, with all the expenses calculated to date. Every item bought for Freedom was carefully listed in Ed’s handwriting. Clothes in one column, food in another, lodgings, keep, train tickets — every item was accounted for. There were pages and pages of figures from Cardiff, the lawyer’s and the barrister’s bills from Smethurst’s firm, Evelyne’s hotel bills and receipts, even down to her satin dress and the rented jewellery. On the following pages were the wages paid to Ed and the two lads, their expenses and their keep. Freedom’s head began to spin as Sir Charles flicked the pages over. ‘Not done yet, take a look at these figures, this is jus,t for the tickets, the posters, the press.’

Page after page was turned over, and the final amount was written in the last column. More than five thousand pounds.

‘I’d say we’ve invested quite a large sum, wouldn’t you? And I think Ed told you, you will be allowed two hundred from the purse, if ‘you win the championship.’

Sir Charles flicked a small piece of thread from his trouser leg, held it aloft to inspect it.

‘If you lose, the contract we have will be null and void, it’s quite obvious why, and surely you must see why I have to have a contract in the first place. You win the British title and you’ll have God knows how many promoters after you. Next stop America, and the fights there take ten times more money than they do here. All I have done, old chap, is to protect my investment.’

He couldn’t determine what Freedom was thinking, but he assumed it was slowly sinking in. ‘If I have made you feel anything less than a friend, I apologize, it certainly was not my intention. I have believed in you right from the very beginning, from Devil’s Pit, you know I travelled up there to see you?’

Pacing the room, Freedom felt guilty, confused. He was all mixed inside.

‘Ed will be waiting at the gym, what do you want to do? I am perfectly willing to listen to anything within reason … I will be saddened if you want to walk away, but I can’t stop you. You will, of course, have to repay all the costs, and I don’t think it too unreasonable, not at this late stage.’

Freedom could hardly swallow, his tongue felt dry and seemed to be sticking in his throat.

‘It’s entirely your decision but we can’t wait, not too long. If you want to back out I shall have to find another contender, won’t be easy. Then again, fighters are two a penny, Freedom; sooner you learn that the better.’

Ed made both men jump as he slammed into the room, flushed with anger. ‘Fighters, maybe, but not champions. You’re a bloody fool, Freedom … sorry, sir, ter barge in like this, but I been up all night long, an’ I just can’t, can’t let ‘im walk away.’ He turned to Freedom. ‘If it’s Evie you want then we’ll find ‘er, if that’s what ail this is about. If it is ‘er, then bugger the press, I say, and I’m sorry, sir, but sod the prince an’ all. I put months of my time into this lad, an’ I won’t let ‘im throw it away.’

Sir Charles was on his feet, his manner controlled but more angry than Freedom had ever seen him. ‘One moment if you please, Ed, I am sure your theatrical entrance was meant well.’

His voice was chilling in its calmness as he glared at Freedom. ‘I want the truth, Stubbs, you swore on oath on that witness stand. Tell me, it was a pack of lies, wasn’t it? You killed that boy in the picture house, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Tell me!’

His control left him and he raised his stick, looking as though he would bring it down on Freedom’s head. Ed gaped, but Freedom moved fast, wrenching the stick away from Sir Charles. Ed thought he would break it in two, but he held it calmly, tapping it into the palm of his hand.

‘I did no killing, sir, an’ what I said on that stand was the truth. I dunno why I’m acting the way I am, I can only say I’m sorry … I love her, sir, I dunno why she went without sayin’ nothin’ to me, and it’s eating me up inside.’

Tight-lipped, Sir Charles picked up his gloves and told Ed to take Freedom to his woman, he would see to the press personally.

‘You’ll fight, then?’,

‘I just need to see her, that’s all, mun.’

Ed sighed with relief, grabbed Freedom’s coat. ‘Get yerself down ter the gym, I’ll get Freda to bring her to you, go on, get out.’

Freedom didn’t need to be told twice. He was out of the room like lightning. Ed hovered at the door.

‘Well, sir, do we go on or not?’

Sir Charles shrugged. ‘As you said, we’ve put a lot of time and money into him, why not?’

Ed ran after Freedom. Sir Charles could see them both from the apartment window, running along Jermyn Street, dodging the passers-by. The gypsy spring was back, all right.

Dewhurst coughed politely.

‘Will you be wanting anything, sir?’

Still staring into the street, Sir Charles was carefully pulling on his gloves. When he spoke his voice was matter-of-fact, with hardly a trace of emotion. ‘Appears our problems were to do with the gel, young fella loved her.’

Dewhurst raised his eyebrows. Sir Charles didn’t look at him, could have been talking to himself. ‘Funny, ya know, I have never known that sort of love, the sort he feels for this girl, never known it … but I do understand. You see, somewhere in the darkened recesses of my mind, I have dreamed of him loving me — never known me treat one of my boxers with such lavish care, have you, eh?’

‘No sir, I have not, sir.’

Sir Charles’ monocled eye glistened with a magnified tear. He adjusted his cravat. ‘Get my things sent over from the Savile, would you, shall be moving back here. Ed can arrange accommodation for him, and he will not be using my barber or my tailor again, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir, perfectly clear, I shall call them straightaway.’

Sir Charles smiled at his manservant, ‘You’re a jolly good fellow, Dewhurst, I appreciate you greatly … still, I didn’t embarrass myself, did I? Does no harm to have lascivious dreams …’

Dewhurst bowed himself out of the room and went immediately to the bedroom where Freedom had been sleeping. Sir Charles followed him and stared at the crumpled sheets. ‘Well, maybe we’ll have a champion. Then again we may not, send everything here to the gym. Oh, and Dewhurst — throw the sheets out, would you?’

The door closed silently behind him, and his voice echoed from the corridor.

‘I’ll be at my club should anyone call.’

After folding Freedom’s clothes carefully, Dewhurst got some brown paper and made a neat parcel.

Freedom worked out hard and well with his two sparring partners, but he constantly glanced at the doors, waiting. Finally, Ed reappeared. ‘Freda’s gone to get her, lad, now get on wiv it, we need all the time we can get … Come on, get on with yer work out, the press is comin’ fer an interview in ‘alf an hour!’

All the neighbours were staring out of their windows, peering out of their doors. Freda had arrived in a horse-drawn cab, and she knocked and knocked on Mrs Harris’ door.

‘What’s up, somebody die? Hey, darlin’, you with the ratcatchers then, are you?’

A scruffy little boy answered the door.

‘Is Evie here? Evelyne, is she here?’

He couldn’t understand what the hysterical little woman was saying. Mrs Harris came to the door and opened it wider. She was carrying little Dora on her hip. ‘Evie? Is it Evie yer want? Well, she’s gorn ter the clinic, it’s in Upper Lambeth Street.’

Freda was already rushing back to the cab. Mrs Harris called after her.

‘If she ain’t there, try Swan an’ Edgar’s, she winder-shops a lot.’

Freedom had changed into his best clothes for the photographers. He seemed not to care about posing, constantly glancing at Ed and then to the doors. ‘Freda not called yet, Ed? You think she’s found her?’

Ed began to panic, maybe Evie had moved, that would be all they needed. ‘Just concentrate on puttin’ on a good show fer the photographers, lad, I’ll nip outside an’ have a look, she’ll be here.’

As Ed bustled out he offered a silent prayer that Freda would find Evie, and fast. They’d got Freedom back to work, but if she didn’t show up Ed didn’t know how long he would behave himself.

Evelyne had walked up Jermyn Street every day for the past five days, each time pausing outside the ornate building where she had seen Freedom, and the uniformed porter had begun to raise his hat to her and smile in recognition. Today she had been about to ask him if Mr Stubbs still lived in these apartments, but at the last moment she couldn’t find the courage. She turned and hurried away.

Freda swiped the tram conductor with her handbag when he tried to prevent her jumping off, shouting to her that she would kill herself. She had seen Evelyne, staring into one of the windows of Swan and Edgar. Poor Freda ran round and round the building, calling Evelyne’s name frantically, but she had disappeared.

‘Get yourself thinking, Freda darlink, where would she ‘ave gone from here, where? Please, dear God, tell me where she is?’

She scurried among the baby clothes and toys, diving among the shoppers, but Evelyne wasn’t there. Disappointed, she turned back towards the stairs … and caught sight of the familiar red hair. Her heart skipped a beat, and she hurried around the counter … and lost her again … no, she hadn’t, there was Evelyne, bending over a cradle, touching it lovingly …

‘Evie! Evieeeee … Evie …’

The reporters and cameramen were just packing up when one of the boys fell down the steps into the gym. He rubbed his shin and gasped incoherently. ‘They got her, she’s found her, she’s coming!’

Ed shouted for quiet and ran to the boy, grabbed him by the collar. ‘What…? What…!? Speak up, lad.’

Freedom seemed to cover the distance from the far end of the gym to Ed’s side in one leap.

‘Take it easy, mate, Freda’s found her, we’ve found her.’

Freedom sprinted up the stairs to the street, looking this way and that, desperate, but there was no sign of anyone. Panic-stricken, he turned to Ed, who ran up and down the road shouting for Freda, for Evie. The lad joined them, saying he had just seen them in a cab, they were outside the gym not two minutes ago.

Freda held Evelyne’s hand as the cabbie drove them once again around the block. Evelyne studied her face in Freda’s small mirror.

‘Oh, Freda, I can’t, look at me, I look terrible, my hair’s all down and I got my old coat on and shoes full of newspapers.’

Freda rummaged in her bag for a comb, waved her hand for the cabbie to go round the block yet again. ‘Here, darlink, my comb, come, let me, let me.’

Freda tried frantically to drag the comb through Evelyne’s hair, but it was a tiny comb and there was so much hair.

On the corner stood Ed, hopefully eyeing each vehicle that passed. He spotted the cab and jumped right in front of it, making the horses shy. Diving into the back he fell into Evie’s arms, kissing her as if he were her long-lost lover, he was so excited. Freedom reappeared and Freda and Ed ran down the road to him, Freda’s feet hardly touching the ground.

‘She’s in the cab, go on, she’s in the cab.’

The look on his face made them both want to cry, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to straighten his tie while at the same time running as fast as he could to the cab. Fascinated, the cabbie looked down from his seat, this was better than the picture houses.

Freedom bent his head into the open carriage window. Evelyne had pressed herself shyly into the corner of the carriage, her cheeks flaming red and her wondrous hair tumbling over her shoulders. Standing staring at her, Freedom could find no words. His breath heaved in his chest, and try as he might he couldn’t stop the sobs forcing their way into his throat, nor could he move.

Eventually he spoke, his voice strained. ‘Can I ride a while with you, manushi?’

He climbed into the cab and sat by Evelyne’s side. He could hear Ed shouting to the driver to just keep driving, drive anywhere. The carriage jolted forward.

Evelyne took Freedom’s hand and placed it on her stomach, and he gasped as if he were about to explode. Immediately she let his hand go, and turned to stare out of the carriage.

She whispered, ‘I’m sorry, he’s yours, Freedom.’ She felt his hand gently caress her swollen belly, and fraction by fraction she turned her head until she could look into his face. She placed her hand over his heart, felt it thudding, and he put his hand over her milk-filled breast. Heart to heart, they whispered each other’s names.

‘Never leave me, manushi. I died a little while you were gone.’

It was getting dark, and the cabbie began to wonder who would be paying his fare. They were still trotting round and round Regent’s Park. The lovers whispered to each other, their fingers interlocked as they vowed they would never again be parted.

Chapter 20

Ed Meadows led Freedom into the weighing-room. It was full of reporters, promoters and officials, standing around the scale. Freedom wore shorts, boxing boots and a robe, the hood pulled over his head, hiding his face.

Micky Morgan, dressed in the same way as Freedom, stood with his corner men and trainer at the far end of the room. His back was to the entrance, but as the murmur of voices died down he knew his opponent had arrived. He didn’t turn, but his back straightened, like an animal sensing danger.

‘Gentlemen, to the scales, please.’

Micky turned slowly, eyes down, refusing to look at Freedom as they were led to the scales. Micky took off his robe first and stepped up. The two officials looked at the pointer, conferred with each other and pushed the weights along the scale bar as Ed tried to get a look over their shoulders to see what weight Morgan was carrying.

‘The champion weighing in, gentlemen, at thirteen stone ten pounds, standing at six feet one and a half inches.’

Still without even a flicker of a glance at Freedom, Micky stepped down, and his trainer immediately replaced his robe around his shoulders. Ed gave him a clinical, professional appraisal. The man was in terrific shape, his skin taut, his body muscular, and his shoulders were slightly concave — good, hunched, boxer’s shoulders. There was no sign of the cut he had taken over his eye in his last championship bout, it seemed completely healed. His nose was flat, eyes hooded, and there was a slight puffiness just below the brows. One of his front teeth was missing, and one of his ears was larger than the other. As he pulled his robe around his shoulders, Ed could see his massive hands, the flat, gnarled knuckles.

The fight was by no means going to be easy, Ed knew Micky looked confident, and Ed knew he was purposely refusing to look in Freedom’s direction.

‘Would the contender please step on the scales.’

It was Freedom’s turn, and off came his robe as he stepped on to the scales. The officials moved the weights, checking carefully, and Micky now watched closely. Freedom was one hell of a size, and his skin was tawny, unlike Micky’s which was whiter-than-white. As the marker on the measuring stick was lowered to Freedom’s head, Micky could see he was well over six feet tall.

‘The contender, gentlemen, weighs in at fourteen stone, one pound, eight ounces, standing at six feet four inches.’

‘He’s a ruddy Red Indian, look at the hair on ‘im, halfway down ‘is back.’

Both boxers were taken back to their dressing rooms, and an hour later they were called in to the conference room. The champion was applauded as he entered. He was wearing a cheap, brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt and tie, and he was carrying a brown trilby hat. He took his seat on the platform beside his trainer and promoter, Lord Livermore, who wore a black coat with an astrakhan collar and smoked a fat Havana cigar. Sir Charles, as immaculate as ever, was talking quietly to him, and shook Micky’s hand when they were introduced.

Ed ushered Freedom into the room and everyone turned to look at him. He did not warrant applause, and Ed whispered for him to take the seat next to Sir Charles. He stepped on to the platform and sat down, fingering his collar and straightening the jacket of his new, single-breasted suit, tailored in soft dove grey. Carrying Freedom’s fur-collared coat, Ed inched his way in behind them and sat down, worried about falling because the leg of his chair was precariously near the edge of the platform. Lord Livermore held his cigar in front of his face and smirked to Sir Charles about his snazzily dressed boxer.

‘How many rounds do you think it’ll go, Micky?’

Smiling, Morgan gave a jerk of his head at Freedom and said that maybe they should ask the contender how many rounds he reckoned he could stand up for. This got a roar of laughter, and Micky posed for a solo photograph. Freedom was asked if he wanted to answer the champ’s question, but he stared blankly and remained silent.

The press requested a shot of Micky and Freedom together, and the two men rose and faced each other, Micky confident and brash, smiling his gap-toothed grin. He got no response from Freedom whose dark eyes stared back, expressionless. The photographers took their time preparing their cameras, and as they waited Micky whispered to Freedom, his voice inaudible to the rest of the room, ‘Goin’ to mark that pretty face, gyppo, goin’ to mark you, break you, gyppo, hear me, take you out in five.’

Freedom stared impassively into the champion’s face, as if he hadn’t heard the threat.

Ed’s brother had found a house for Evelyne and Freedom, further along the terrace in the same street, not five turnings away from Mrs Harris’. The previous occupants of number twelve had fallen behind with their rent, and the bailiffs had moved them out. The house had been infested with mice and bugs so they had had to scrub and disinfect everything, and call in the ratcatcher to put down poison. This was Evelyne’s first home of her own and, to the concern of all the women in the street, she had worked herself into exhaustion. Seeing her, heavily pregnant, scrubbing at the steps, had earned her the acceptance of all her neighbours. Freda and several other local women had scrubbed and washed and helped hang curtains, nail down lino, and had even brought odd bits of china to help out. They all called her Evie.

Mrs Harris was Evelyne’s first proper visitor. She came walking slowly up the road, carrying a big pot of stew. ‘ ‘Ello, lovey, I ‘ad this on when one of the kids came round, so I didn’t like to waste it … well, well, just think of it, you a neighbour! Well I never!’

Evelyne showed her round the scrubbed little house with pride. When she saw that Evie had got a gas stove, Mrs Harris went into raptures. There wasn’t a stick of furniture yet, but the curtains were lovely, and the lino was a pretty shade of green.

‘Oh, Evie love, it’s a palace, a real palace, you’ve done wonders.’

A small crowd had gathered outside, and one of the women yelled to Evelyne at the top of her voice, ‘It’s the bed arrived, yer bed’s come!’ A new bed in this street was something, and all the neighbours were agog. The mahogany headboard met with nods of approval. The bed was enormous, and the delivery men had to be helped getting it into the house.

Freedom and Evelyne went up the narrow staircase and stood looking into their bedroom. There it was in all its glory, the special-sized bed.

‘Well, I never thought I’d be a kairengo!’

Lying down on the thick mattress, Evelyne patted it for him to lie beside her. ‘What does that mean?’

He lay down and told her that a kairengo was a man who lived in a house. He stared up’ at the ceiling, and she picked up his hand, kissed it, ‘Do you not like it?’

He turned and touched her face, kissed her softly, ‘It’s what you want that’s my pleasure. Tell me, are you happy?’

She rolled over, rubbed her belly and stretched. She told him she had never been so happy in. her entire life. Up she got and swished the curtains, showing him the wooden rail, then insisted that he see everything, pulling him by the hand until, he got up off the bed.

‘This is our home, Freedom, and here, in here, this is where the baby will be. Mr Harris said he’d make me a cradle … and come on down, let me show you how the gas stove lights up. You don’t need to have the fire lit, see, you turn this tap here, and you light it like so, isn’t it lovely?’

Delighted, he watched her as she touched the walls, the lino, and then brought him her notebook to show him what kind of furniture they would save for. ‘We’ll not get anything on tick, that way we won’t get into debt, but we’ll buy it piece by piece, it’ll be so lovely.’

Freedom went back up to the bedroom. He didn’t want to spoil her happiness, couldn’t tell her the house was already weighing on him, closing in on him, and he hated it. Evelyne thought he was sleeping, but he was dreaming of the open air, the fields, riding on a wild pony. He felt her lie down beside him, and her body heat warmed him like a fire.

‘Feel him, he’s kicking, feel.’

He put his hand to her belly and felt the strange movements of his child inside her. He would fight for his very life in the ring, and he would give her everything she dreamed of, now he had something to fight for, his wife and his child.

Evelyne shifted to a more comfortable position, careful not to wake him, knowing he needed his sleep before the fight. Sweat broke out all over her, and the kicking, thudding, unborn child felt as if he was trying to punch his way through her backbone. ‘Dear God, don’t let him come now, not tonight. Stay put until after the fight.’

The morning of the fight was cold, and the snow was falling thick and fast. It was not yet five, but Evelyne could hear Freedom moving around downstairs, stoking up the kitchen fire. She felt the first spasm, it shook her body, and she bit hard on the blanket. He wasn’t going to wait… She gasped, and the spasm subsided.

Ed banged on the front door, wrapped up and waiting to take Freedom over to the gym for a work out. Freedom was in high spirits, and raring to go. ‘I done made a cup of tea on the stove, Ed, and it brought the kettle to the boil as fast as ever! You get me the tickets I asked for, Ed? I got to see they get their seats.’

Ed threw up his arms and said he’d given all the tickets out, they all had them, and he had taken one over to Hammer personally. ‘You got more to worry about than ruddy tickets, mate, come on, I want you running in half an hour.’

As he put his coat on, Freedom noticed that Ed had trailed some mud in on his shoes so he fetched a cloth to wipe the lino.

‘Now what you doin’, Freedom?’

He could hardly believe it, there was his contender worrying about dirty lino.

‘Ed? Ed, is that you? Will you come up for a minute?’

Freedom pushed Ed up the stairs and wiped the floor — he didn’t want Evie getting down on her knees to do it. As Ed thudded up the stairs Freedom asked him if Evie’s ticket was all right.

Exasperated, Ed leaned over the banister. ‘Evie’s ticket’s all right, she’ll be at the ringside, now will you stop maunderin’ on an’ get yer gear together. Gawd almighty, I don’t know what’s come over you.’

He tapped on the bedroom door and popped his head around, about to tell Evie she was married to a charlady, when she signalled to him to shut the door.

‘The baby’s coming, Ed, will you get Freda? But don’t tell Freedom, I don’t want him worrying.’

This was all they needed! Ed went dizzy, dear God, what a time for the baby to choose, the day of the fight! Panic-stricken, trying hard to look calm, he backed out of the room.

‘I’ll have to go back to the house, I’ve forgotten the liniment.’

Freedom laughed and said he would start walking, Ed could catch up with him. So much for all Ed’s hurrying, he was the one delaying them now. He was about to go up and say goodbye to Evelyne when Ed stopped him, pushed him down the stairs saying she was sleeping, he should let her rest. They tiptoed out, and Freedom closed the door quietly behind them as Ed sprinted down the street to his brother’s house. The kids were in the middle of breakfast when he burst in, yelling for Freda. She hurried in with her hair still in curlers, already preparing herself for the big night.

‘It’s coming, you’d better get over there fast, it’s coming.’

The children started to ask what was coming, but Freda understood immediately. ‘What, now? But it’s not due, not yet… oh my God, what a time to come!’

Still the kids asked who was coming, but no one answered. Freda rushed to get dressed.

Another contraction had Evelyne wailing with pain, wishing Freda would come. She was sweating, the hair on the nape of her neck damp, and the ache in her back agony. She felt the baby moving inside her.

Freda hurried along the street, carrying two big pots for boiling water. Evie opened the door to her, ‘Will you get Mrs Harris? I want Mrs Harris here.’

Freda ordered Evie back into bed, then she fetched the pans and put them on the gas stove before rushing out to get Mrs Harris, leaving Evelyne writhing on the bed in agony.

Mrs Harris asked Evelyne how often her pains were coming, and Freda replied that it was immaterial how often — they were coming, that meant the baby was imminent. Although childless herself, Freda was suddenly an authority on childbirth. But Mrs Harris, having had seven, knew exactly what it was all about, and she shouted upstairs to Evelyne, ‘ ‘Ave yer waters broke yet, love?’

Freda replied that they had two pans full, and they were just putting some more on. ‘I know what to do, I read all about it for Evie. I got the water boilink,’ she said proudly.

With a sigh, Mrs Harris shut the door, went to the bedroom and felt Evelyne’s brow. Then she checked the sheets and shook her head. ‘Yer water’s not even broke yet, love, you’re a long way off, when was yer last bellyache?’

Feeling better, Evelyne sat up and realized that she’d not had any contractions for quite a while.

‘When they start joinin’ into one, yer baby’s on its way down the chute, so ‘ow about a nice cup o’ tea?’

On his morning run Freedom conserved his strength, running easily, relaxed, not taxing himself. Then he and Ed went to the cafe for a huge breakfast of steak and eggs. Freedom would not eat again until after the fight.

While Freedom was out of earshot, Ed sent one of the boys over to Freedom’s to find out how Evelyne was and report back. He watched Freedom working out, holding back all the time, never pushing, and later gave him a rub down in the small massage room at the back of the gym, using his own concoction of olive oil mixed with a small amount of horse liniment and a spoonful of surgical spirit. He began on Freedom’s calves and worked upwards to his back and shoulders.

‘If I don’t knock him out, Ed, I’ll gas him!’

Ed thumped him on the back and told him to shut up and relax, he was to rest and prepare himself.

At four o’clock Freedom was sleeping in the back room, wrapped in blankets, while Ed paced the street outside the gym. This was the third trip the lad had made and still the baby had not arrived. It looked more as if Ed was the expectant father, he was so worried.

‘It’s not come yet, they was all drinking tea an’ playin’ rummy.’

Ed told him he could go to the house once more, and after that Freda could call them at the Albert Hall from the telephone in the local pub. The mere mention of the Albert Hall hit Ed like a brick on the back of his head. It was getting near the time, they would be leaving for the match in less than an hour.

‘He’s still fast asleep like a baby ‘imself, Ed, you’d think he couldn’t go out like that on the day of the fight.’

Evelyne had been in labour for most of the day, and the women were beginning to get anxious. It wasn’t her they were worried about, she was strong and was taking the pains well. They were worried about not getting to the fight themselves. Ed’s brother was beside himself, sitting drumming his fingers on the kitchen table and coming in every few minutes for news.

‘Can you not push it out? She carries on like this an’ you’ll be too late ter get ter the fight.’

As cool as a cucumber, Mrs Harris replied, ‘It’ll come when it’s ready and not before … now, Freda, you go an’ get yerself dolled up. I’ll sit wiv her.’

Freda came to the back door, wearing her hat and carrying her coat. One look told her nothing had happened yet. It was six o’clock, and they had to leave in half an hour, the fight was to start at half-past seven.

‘They won’t get into the ring prompt, like, but if we ain’t there someone might get our seats, and then there’s the build-up, that’s all part of it, we’ll miss that.’

Evelyne, the centre of everyone’s problems, looked around her at the concerned faces. It was almost laughable, there they all were in their best clothes, hanging on her every utterance. Mrs Harris had tied a strip of sheeting around the mahogany bedpost for Evelyne to pull against when the pains came, but the pains hadn’t been coming for the last hour.

‘Go on, don’t miss the fight for me, I’ll be all right, and Mrs Harris’ll stay with me, go on.’

Mrs Harris shooed everyone out, then went back to check on Evelyne. The rubber sheet was in place, the hot water ready, and there was a clean blanket for the baby. ‘You all right, love? Just breathe easy, nice an’ deep, won’t be long now.’

Hammer paraded at the cafe wearing the proprietor’s jacket, and a shirt, tie and a good pair of trousers given to him by the Salvation Army. ‘I’m ringside, mun, did I tell you, look, see, ringside seat, and I’m not payin’ a farthing.’

He had been displaying his ticket for days. He parted with it reluctantly at the box office, and proudly announced to everyone that he had once been knocked out by the contender.

He made his way to his seat, clutching his programme and making a great show of reading it, although he couldn’t read a word. Inside the programme was a photograph of Freedom, and he pointed to it, turning to anyone close at hand. ‘I’d put me money on this lad, he took me out once, bout in Cardiff.’

The clamour of the crowd in the pit seats and the glitter of the society people filling the boxes made the huge hall seem to vibrate. A match was in progress in the ring, but no one was paying much attention, and many seats were still empty, most of the people not bothering to claim their seats until the main event. A murmur went up as the news spread that Prince Edward’s party had arrived at the entrance to the hall. The tiered boxes were almost full and still the stragglers made their way to their seats. The first match ended in a spattering of applause, and a brass band began to play a lively march. The audience clapped their hands along with the music. The noise drifted down to the dressing-rooms, where Ed had barred everyone but Sir Charles and the two corner men. Freedom sat on a table, hands out, as Ed carefully wound his bandages. Despite eighteen years’ experience of bandaging boxers’ hands Ed was meticulous, constantly asking if it was all right. Freedom looked at him, ‘You don’t need me to tell you, just get on with it.’

The atmosphere was tense, electric. In the main dressing room Micky Morgan’s hands were being bandaged. His trainer stood behind him, massaging his shoulders, soothing him, talking quiedy. ‘Big crowd, not a seat to be had, His Royal’s arrived, there’s touts outside selling tickets at five times the price, gonna be a night, Micky, your night, it’s your night, Micky.’

Freedom’s hands were ready, and they waited for the referee to come and check them over. He sat with his eyes closed, swinging his legs. Ed wished he knew what made Freedom tick, but he never had been able to fathom him out. He might be sitting waiting for his dinner, he seemed so relaxed.

Freda, her brother-in-law and his wife edged their way along the row to their seats. They waved to a few faces they knew, and sat down.Evelyne’s empty seat was now more obvious in the crowded hall. Freda had tried to get round the back but hadn’t been allowed in, they’d done all they could. The phones were all engaged. The. operator had said she herself couldn’t put any calls through, as there were so many people waiting.

A group of men in evening dress came walking along the passage from the dressing-rooms. The hall grew quiet as all eyes watched the ring. The band struck up a fanfare. Now they could see, way up by the entrance, the tight group of trainers and corner men, and behind them the hooded figure of Micky Morgan.

‘This is it, gels, here they come.’

The corner men flanked Freedom as he progressed down the hall and up into the ring. The crowd went mad, cheering and yelling, but Freedom kept his head low, his gloved fists touching each other. Behind him came Ed, sweating, his face bright pink.

‘There’s Ed, there … see?’

The group entered the ring exactly opposite them, exactly opposite the empty seat, but for the moment it went unnoticed. The fanfare blasted again and the cheers grew even louder, nearly lifting the roof off as Micky entered. He wore a dark red velvet cape with the word ‘Champion’ written across the back. He bent to climb through the ropes, then stood with his fists above his head, and the crowd went wild.

Carrying a microphone on a long, thick lead, a white-haired man in tails and top hat stepped into the ring. He walked to the centre.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the King!’

The band played and everyone in the hall sang in unison, ‘God Save the King’. Prince Edward and his party were all standing in the royal box, and he too sang the National Anthem. He gave a small wave and then he, like everyone else in the hall, took his seat.

In the ring stood Freedom, head bowed, and Micky stared straight ahead. As the audience settled in their seats again, the boxers went to their corners. The master of ceremonies called out their weights and announced twenty, two-minute rounds. The referee, Ron Hutchinson, was introduced and bowed in the centre of the ring. He had once been a middleweight champion boxer, and was now about to retire from the police force. He had iron-grey hair and a stern-looking, craggy face.

On a podium overlooking the ring were two men with a film camera, recording the match. Ron Hutchinson went first to the champion’s corner and asked if everything was ready, then crossed the ring to Freedom’s corner. He actually had to ask twice, as Freedom was more intent on looking across at Freda than on what was happening in the ring.

‘Her seat’s empty, Ed. Where’s Evie, she’s not here?’

Hutchinson spoke a few words to the corner men, then made a slow circuit of the ring instructing all those close to the canvas to keep their hands away from the ring itself.

‘Ed, she’s not in her seat, Evie’s not here.’ Ed gritted his teeth and swore at Freedom, this was not the time to start worrying about Evie.

Back in the centre of the ring, Hutchinson signalled for both boxers to come forward. Freedom was staring, concerned and preoccupied, at the empty seat. Hutchinson hooked an arm around each boxer’s shoulders, and above the roar of the crowd he could be heard clearly, his voice harsh. ‘I want a good clean fight, no butting, no holding. You break on my word, understand? No low punches, let’s keep this professional. An’ above all, obey my voice. I don’t want to have to say things twice, an’ I don’t want to disqualify either of you for dirty fighting … All right, then back to your corners and may the best man win.’

As the boxers’ gumshields were fitted the crowd went quiet, knowing the bell would clang at any moment. Ed whispered in Freedom’s right ear as he rubbed his shoulders, repeating it over and over, desperate to get through to him. ‘Evie’s all right, she’s fit an’ she’s strong, and she wants you to win, understand me, are you listenin’ ter me? Evie had to stay ‘ome, the baby’s coming sooner than expected.’

Beneath Ed’s kneading ringers Freedom’s shoulders froze. ‘Why didn’t Freda stay with her for God’s sake, mun? Is she on her own?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Ed could see the bell being lifted, the stopwatch being shown to the referee. Any moment now they were going to begin, and here was his man worrying himself sick over his wife.

‘Evie said if Freda didn’t come to the fight she’d never forgive ‘er. She’s got Mrs Harris, a doctor an’ a midwife an’ a nurse, so she’s being taken care of … Now, think of the fight, son, concentrate, Freedom, get in there and go fer it.’

The bell rang, the corner men whipped the stools out and jumped down from the ring.

Micky was out of his corner like a bullet, his hands up, moving towards Freedom, and Freedom took two punches before the pain brought him round. Micky’s eyes were like steel, staring into Freedom’s face, and his gum protector made him look as if he was leering.

Mrs Harris knew it was time, the pains were ripping through Evelyne, and she was heaving for breath. ‘Grab hold of the sheet, love, pull down, come on, grab it an’ pull.’

Evelyne held on grimly to the twisted sheet knotted round the bedpost. With every contraction she held on and yelled her head off. Just by feeling her belly Mrs Harris knew the baby was big, so she heaved Evelyne on to her side, knowing her spine would take too much strain if she lay on her back.

“E’s a big’un, an’ ‘e’s on ‘is way, so grip hard and press down, press him out of you every time that pain comes, press down and hang on to the sheet…’

Mrs Smith brought up hot water, standing by and giving way to Mrs Harris’ experience. The big woman was so calm, soothing Evelyne and rubbing her back, talking quietly to her and going through each spasm herself.

“Ere we go, love, ‘ere comes another one … and push him, that’s my girl, push.’

Freedom slumped into the corner, and Ed dipped his sponge and squeezed it over Freedom’s face. One of the lads dipped the gumshield in the water to clean it, and the other held it ready and gave Freedom water. He gulped and spat into the bucket.

‘Is there any way we can get word if she’s all right, Ed?’

The lad watched as Ed lathered Vaseline over Freedom’s eyebrows and cheeks.

‘We got someone standing by in the pub, anyfink ‘appens they’ll call us, don’t worry.’

All Freedom’s concentration was on Evelyne, and he was sick with worry. On the other hand, Ed was sick that Freedom wasn’t fighting, he was letting punch after punch penetrate his defence. Already there were deep red marks on his chest, Micky’s glove prints were all over him.

‘You’re buggerin’ around out there, hear me? If Evie knew what you was doin’ she’d get into this ring herself. Your gel’s a fighter, for God’s sake, you gotta win for ‘er.’

The bell rang again, and Micky was up and out of his corner. His trainer was satisfied, so far Micky was ahead on every round, and he began to think that Micky would take the gyppo out in five rounds as he had bragged. All through the break his trainer said, over and over, ‘You’ve got him on the run, and he’s got no punch, he’s not landed one home. Take him, Micky, go on, take him.’

Round four, and Micky certainly looked as if he was beating the contender. He began to get cocky, hissing through his gumshield, ‘Whassamatter, gyppo, scared, scared? Fight, come on, whassamatter, hit me, hit me.’

So cocksure was Micky that at one point he turned to the crowd so they could see him smile. The sounds of cheering were getting mixed now with booing, so Micky decided to go for it, and moved in. Bam, bam … he edged Freedom on to the ropes. Freedom ducked, sidestepped, ducked, sidestepped, then threw two punches so wild that Micky got in one hell of a crack. His right hook landed on Freedom’s jaw.

The crowd gasped, Freedom was off balance … he staggered slighdy then recovered. Micky was sure the punch would have knocked him down, and was surprised when the big lad came straight back at him. The bell rang, and it was yet another round to Micky. Ed had screamed himself hoarse from the corner, Freedom wasn’t using his brains, he was dancing, to Ed’s knowledge he hadn’t thrown one decent punch, one that had landed. ‘He’s wiping the canvas with you, an’ you’re lettin’ ‘im do it, come on, come on, get your temper up, fight him!’

Ed eased the elastic on Freedom’s trunks as the corner men sponged and towelled him. Freedom spat water and sniffed, and again Ed lathered the Vaseline on. Freedom’s face was marked on the right side.

In the other corner the trainer barked into Micky’s face that this was it — this was the round. Micky heaved for breath and said it was like doing the Charleston out there, but he was still heaving. The gyppo might be on the run but he was still tiring Micky. ‘I’ll take him this round.’

Clang! They were up again, Ed’s screams going unheard beneath the roar of the crowd. Ed was screaming,

‘Body! Body? as Micky was keeping his hands high, head down. He held Freedom and they both lurched over to the ropes. Micky still held on, leaning his whole weight on Freedom until the referee split them apart. Micky was no longer hissing insults, he was moving in for the kill, and he looked as if he would pull it off until Freedom caught him with a good left jab, straight on to his old cut. Micky swore and went after Freedom, hurting now, his eye smarting. He was also worried, he’d felt that jab — not that it could have cut him down, but it could be dangerous if the old wound were to open up.

When the bell clanged, round five was evens, leaving Micky a clear four rounds ahead.

‘He’s like an ox, I’ve been hitting him hard and he just takes it, I dunno where he’s coming from.’

Micky’s eyes were checked and greased, his trainer giving him instructions all the time, telling him to go for the head, Freedom was open ‘upstairs’. The bell rang for round six, and one of the lads ran to the dressing room to get fresh water.

Mrs Harris soaked strips of cloth in hot water and laid them over Evelyne. The heat soothed her. Mrs Harris herself had never been this long in labour … Evelyne lay on her side, hands slightly above her head, gripping the rope. A sudden, terrible pain shot through her, as though she was being torn in two, and she screamed through clenched teeth, screamed that she’d had enough, she didn’t want him, she couldn’t take any more. The relief was so sudden it stunned her, and she gasped, her mouth open wide.

‘Here ‘e is, love, here ‘e is, come on you little bugger, and about time, too.’

She was right, he was big, and she had to help him in the first few moments, but out he came, and she held him upside-down by his heels, one sharp slap and the next moment Evelyne’s howl was joined by a lusty yell from her son.

‘Here ‘e is, come on, Evie love, let go of the rope, ‘e’s ‘ere.’

Evelyne loosened her grip and eased herself over. Mrs Harris held the baby out to her and she saw the thick thatch of black hair. His lungs were working overtime, and as Evelyne held him to her, his fists punched the air.

‘He’s a boxer like ‘is dad, eh? Will you look at ‘im, Evie, I’d say he was a ten-pounder, more … My God he’s strong.’

Round seven, and Micky slumped in his corner. As they eased out his gumshield he gasped, ‘By Christ, when he gets a punch home it hurts, how’s the eye?’

Micky was confident, he knew he was well ahead on points, but the corner men had their work cut out for them because his eye was opening up. They painted it, daubed him with Vaseline, and his eyes smarted and filled with tears. He gulped at the water and spat it out.

Freedom was panting and Ed was sponging him down, drenching him with the cold water. ‘That was the first time you connected, the first, and you ‘urt ‘im. ‘Is eye’s openin’ up, keep on that eye, an’ watch ‘is right. He’s got a nasty sneaky double punch, left-left-right, and then in he comes, watch out for it.’

Suddenly Freedom jerked his head away from Ed’s greasy fingers and stared up at him with such an expression that Ed stepped back, ‘I got a son, I got a son, Ed, my boy’s born.’

Ed’s jaw dropped, and one of the lads had to ram the gumshield in Freedom’s mouth as the bell was raised. Freedom was up before it rang and prancing into the ring. The lads had to haul the amazed Ed out of the ring. He wasn’t sure what to think, the look on Freedom’s face had completely unnerved him. He checked his watch and almost gave himself whiplash as a huge cheer broke from the crowd.

Freedom was punching now, for the first time he was showing his colours, and Micky was taken off-balance. He took a punch to his left side that winded him, and he rocked. The crowd roared, but Micky paced back and gave himself a push off the ropes. For once he was on the run, the crowd knew it, and so did Micky. Freedom was jabbing, tough, hard, tight jabs, and they were hammering down on Micky’s eye. He felt it splitting, and the blood began to drip down his face; he knew he would have to keep on the move for this round. This was Freedom’s first clear round, and the crowd began to sense that the fight had only just begun. They were on their feet, throwing caps in the air, and when the bell rang it was hard to hear. The sound of it was sweet relief to Micky, and his men worked double time trying to close the cut. His eye was puffing up, and his vision on the left was blurred.

Freda’s hat was over one ear, she had eaten her handkerchief, and shouted so much she’d lost her voice. Hammer jumped up from his seat and swung his fist as Freedom began to perk up. The poor elderly man sitting directly in front of him felt his false teeth shoot out as Hammer’s fist connected with the back of his head. The pair scrabbled beneath the seat, Hammer shouting his apologies.

‘Just get me teeth, twenty-five shillings’ worth there, mate.’

But the teeth were forgotten as the bell clanged for round nine.

Ed was mopping his brow with the sponge, his shirt drenched, his bright red braces sticking to him.

‘Come on lad, this is it, go for it. Go for it!’. Micky was tough and there was no way he was going to go down easily. He knew he was still ahead on points, and he took a breather, keeping on the move, letting Freedom do all the chasing.

‘Fight, mun, go on, stop doing the dance, mun,

Having worked so hard in the earlier rounds, Micky was warned three times by the ref for holding. Round nine went to Freedom, and the ref went over to Micky’s corner in the break. His men grouped tightly around him, swearing that everything was all right, and the ref had to pry their pressing hands from Micky’s cut. Satisfied that the blood had been stemmed, he gave the signal for the fight to continue.

‘It’s yours, Freedom, keep on his eye, it’s split like an orange, hear me, get his eye.’

Round ten, and Freedom was on his feet before the bell rang. The crowd was going crazy, and fights were breaking out as the people behind tried to make those in the ringside seats sit down so their view would not be blocked.

Freedom swigged the water and tried to get his breath as Ed flapped with the towel. ‘I’m hitting him with all I’ve got, Ed, and he’s still on his feet.’

Ed massaged him and kept up a steady flow of instructions. He knew Freedom was exhausted, Micky was holding on to him at every opportunity. Freedom’s face was red, but there was no broken skin, and not even a hint of puffiness around the eyes.

‘You got the Prince standin’ up shouting for yer in that last round, take him this round, lad, you know you can.’

Freedom smiled and said that if he won this round his son would be called Edward. Again Ed felt a chill through his sweating body, and he shuddered. Freedom talked as if he knew something Ed didn’t, but the bell clanged and he had to hurry down from the ring.

Micky got a second wind, God knows from where, and lambasted Freedom. Micky’s nose was bleeding and his eye was swollen so he couldn’t see … He was flaying the air, coming back for a right hook when the jab caught him, right on the jaw, clean-cut, like steel.

Micky crashed to the canvas, tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He clung to the ropes, trying to haul himself up, but again his legs gave way.

‘Eight… nine … ten!’

Freedom Stubbs was the British Heavyweight Boxing Champion.

Chapter 21

THE local people took their new neighbours to their hearts, and Freedom became their hero. On the night he and Ed went to the Sporting Club dinner to collect the championship belt and the purse, everyone was at the door. The kids asked for his autograph, they wanted it five or six times to sell copies at school. With Edward in her arms, Evelyne waved them off like the rest. Freedom was dressed up, with a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. The Christmas lights were twinkling and the few houses that could afford them already had trees in their windows.

When they arrived at the Sporting Club, the porters stopped them as they were about to hand their coats to the cloakroom attendant, and slowly checked their names in a register. Ed patted Freedom’s shoulder, ‘He’s the champion, mate, what’s the hold-up?’

Several evening-suited gents passing through the lobby looked curiously at them while they waited. The porter eventually gestured for Ed to go through, then he bent down beneath his desk and drew out a brown paper package which he handed to Freedom. ‘I’m sorry, sir, this is for you, I can’t let you go in.’

Ed, of course, puffed and huffed, said there must be some mistake, but the parcel contained the championship belt. In a temper Ed told Freedom to wait, there had to have been some mistake.

The dining room was already crowded with sporting gentlemen, drinking. Sir Charles was sitting at the top table with Lord Lonsdale himself, who had embarked on one of his long, rambling tales. The guests listened attentively as His Lordship regaled them with the story of when he had met Rasputin in Russia. Most of them had heard it many times, but the story had grown to outrageous proportions. When Sir Charles saw Ed he gestured with his arms, his cigar clamped between his teeth, and excused himself. Rising from the table he stared coldly as Ed approached him.

‘I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but there must have been some mistake, they won’t allow Freedom into the club.’

Sir Charles was totally unruffled and told Ed that in his opinion — and in the opinion of most of the other gentlemen present — Freedom had not acted in a sporting manner. He had insulted the Prince by not appearing at the Cafe Royal on the night of the championship. Ed could not believe his ears — he stared, speechless, and when Sir Charles offered him a chair he refused it and turned to walk out. Sir Charles tapped him on the shoulder, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you were to commence training at The Grange during Christmas. I’ve arranged suitable accommodation.’

Tight-lipped and burning with anger, Ed murmured that he would relay the message to Freedom. He knew it was no message, it was an order, and he held his back very straight as he walked out through the tables full of so-called gentlemen.

He found Freedom standing outside in the snow, his prize belt stuffed in his pocket. Ed didn’t know how to tell him, but he didn’t have to. Freedom took one look at his face and began to walk along the pavement, ‘I don’t want anyone to know about this, Ed, keep it between us. It’s Christmas, the markets are open, we’ll go and get a few things, make it a celebration to remember.’

Near tears, Ed grinned at him, and fell into step beside his champion. He knew Freedom would not forget this treatment; he had that strange look on his face, the mask had dropped into place. Even though Ed tried to tell him it didn’t matter, he knew that the insult had been taken to heart.

The market was full of last-minute Christmas shoppers and the yell of the thronging traders flogging their wares. Birds were strung up outside the butchers’ shops, chilled by the snow. A man selling Christmas decorations recognized Freedom and cries of ‘Champion!’ went round the market. Freedom was a celebrity, and the warmth of their voices and good wishes lifted his gloom.

He stopped at a pet stall and examined the pigeons, bought one in a proper cage, then grinned at Ed, ‘Get someone to take this over to that little lad from the lodgin’s, tell him Father Christmas sent it.’

Freedom walked down the street followed by a costermonger’s barrow piled so high with parcels the donkey could scarcely pull it. Up on top of the cart was a cradle and there were so many toys that Freedom kept stopping and handing them out to children running alongside. He had bought a table and chairs, lamps, and so much food he could have fed the whole street.

Evelyne stood at the bedroom window and stared at the strange-looking carnival as it came to a halt before the house. Freedom called up to her to look, and he stood grinning from ear to ear, his arms open wide. Ed, well-oiled and with whisky bottles sticking out of his pockets, reeled around with the lamplighter, singing at the top of his voice.

Evelyne watched from the stairs as the furniture was hauled in. It seemed there were people everywhere, yelling instructions on where to put everything, and the baby started screaming. It gave Evelyne a splitting headache. Freedom carried the cradle upstairs — it was made of carved wood with angels on each side. Evelyne had longed for the cradle from Swan and Edgar, with its modern mattress and frilled drapes. This was so old-fashioned. ‘ ‘Put him in, gel, come along, let’s have him.’

He stuffed a pillow into the cradle, took the baby from her arms and laid him in it. Edward howled, clenched his fists and punched at the sides. This made Freedom roar with laughter, and he dug in his pockets. He pulled out his championship belt and tossed it aside as if it were no more than a piece of wrapping paper. Then he took out a small leather case, beaming as he handed it to Evelyne.

The necklace was delicate, gold with pearl drops, and there were matching pearl drop earrings. ‘Put it on, gel, let us see you. Want you to feel like a real lady, and this is just to start with, wait ‘til you see what else I got for you.’

Picking up the bawling baby, Evelyne followed Freedom downstairs. Rolls of carpet were stacked in the hallway, chairs and cupboards had been dumped everywhere. Her spotless kitchen was a mess of straw and china, crates and boxes, but there was not one thing she had imagined for furnishing her home. Freedom strolled around like a magician, opening boxes and displaying his purchases. Then he sat in a big velvet chair and lit a cigar.

‘Where did you get all the money for this? It must have cost a bit.’

She eased her way among the boxes while he puffed on his cigar, still beaming. She could smell that he had been drinking, and she went around looking at price tags. When she reached the mountain of food, she got a terrible sinking feeling. ‘Did you get the fight money, then?’

With a wide, sweeping gesture to the room he said he had, and here it all was. Evelyne had to support herself on the edge of the new table that was too big for the kitchen. Freedom had blown the lot — everything apart from odd notes he had stuffed into his various pockets. He had to vacate the chair as Evelyne looked as if she was about to faint.

All her careful saving and scrimping, and in one night he had spent nearly two hundred pounds. More than the remains of her legacy — more than all the months of saving. She was shakin’g with anger and frustration, and it was then she vowed to herself that he would never know about her savings. His reckless spending shocked her to the core — that he had not discussed the money with her infuriated her and she wanted to scream the place down.

‘I did it all for you, gel, for Christmas.’

She couldn’t be angry with him, he looked so unhappy, his dark eyes like her baby son’s. She went to him and kissed him, lied and said everything was perfect.

Later, lying next to him in their huge bed with the canopy he had chosen in a colour that clashed with the paint, she stared at the ceiling, sleepless. All she could think of was what she could have done with two hundred pounds, and she wept.

Evelyne had learned her lesson. Money meant nothing to Freedom, nor possessions. If he had a shilling in his pocket, he would spend it or hand it out to whoever asked for it. He was a soft touch, a spendthrift, and the whole street knew it. Evelyne was quite relieved to depart for The Grange as, with no money coming in, she would have had to dip into her savings. At least in the country they would be fed and Freedom would be paid for his training sessions there … so her savings could remain intact. She made up her mind to tell Ed that any money must be given to her, and she would dole it out to Freedom.

Freda was glad to be back in her cottage at The Grange, and in no time at all she had the kettle sizzling and a pot of stewed rabbit on the stove by the fire. Ed had his feet up, his worn slippers on.

There had been a lot of changes since they were last there, a whole new stable complex had been erected and on the other side of the yard beyond the barn were kennels for the hunting hounds. The dogs could be heard baying and howling.

‘Ask me ‘e’s tryin’ ter be like ‘is Lordship ‘imself, there’s been some money thrown about here, you see the new gardens and the shrubberies … Course, it’s not a patch on Lonsdale’s place, but that’s what Sir Charles is after.’

Freda dusted and swept, stirred the stew and told Ed to pop over to see if Freedom and Evelyne had everything they needed. Grumbling, he put on his heavy coat and went out, crossing the yard to the stables. Freedom, Evelyne and the baby had been installed in the new stable complex along with the stable hands and gamekeepers. Ed looked around the two rooms, sparsely furnished with just the bare essentials, and he could tell that Evelyne was upset. Freedom had gone out to the woods and from the small window Ed could see his figure like a small dot on the white fields, running flat out.

‘Well, there’s one of us glad to be back here. There he goes, like a hare, isn’t he?’

Evelyne snapped that she could use him indoors as she had to make up a bed for the baby, and Freedom had not lifted a finger since they arrived. He’d already had a row with the head stableboy because he had not been allowed to ride one of Sir Charles’ hunters.

Ed made soothing noises while he watched four gardeners hauling a massive Christmas tree that was to stand in front of the drawing-room windows of The Grange. Sir Charles had not arrived home yet, and from the number of lighted windows in the house Ed knew all hell would be let loose as Miss Balfour organized the servants in their preparations for Christmas.

Evelyne handed the baby to him, and he cooed and chucked him under the chin. Ed looked up to see Evie, neat and tidy as ever, putting on her coat. ‘Yer not goin’ out at this hour, Evie. You’ll catch yer death.’

‘I’m just going over to the kitchens to see everybody, say hello.’

The cook, the footmen, the housemaids whooped when Evelyne entered the kitchen.

‘Well, let’s have a look at you, well I never, so you’re married, well, well, and he’s back as the British Champion, well, well.’

They opened a bottle of cooking sherry to celebrate.

‘So you’re back, well don’t expect no special treatment from me, Miss Jones,’ Miss Balfour snapped, ‘And I’ll thank you not to keep everyone chatting in my kitchen when there’s work to be done.’

‘Will you not toast my good health, and my baby’s, Miss Balfour?’

Begrudgingly, Miss Balfour sipped a sherry then spoke with thin, pursed lips, ‘Here’s good health to you, is it a boy you have? Well, that’s very nice, now if you will excuse me …’ She left, ordering all of them to return to work. The housemaids sighed and looked at Evelyne as though she were a heroine, and she was delighted at being the centre of attention. She had two more sherries before she left with her cheeks flushed and rosy.

In the cold starlit December night with the thick carpet of snow, The Grange looked magical. Evelyne breathed in the clear air, maybe it was good that they’d all come here, away from the dirty London traffic.

‘You look as pretty as a picture, I’ve been watching you.’

Freedom slipped his arm around her and she cuddled close.

‘Happy, manushi?’

She looked up into his smiling, handsome face. ‘I am, an’ you’re a rinkeney man all right, Freedom Stubbs.’

He roared with laughter at her use of the Romany word for ‘handsome’, and together they walked towards Ed and Freda’s cottage. They peered like children into the kitchen and then giggled. Ed had their son on his lap and Freda was standing by giving him instructions on how to change a nappy.

‘I don’t think ‘e needs one, love, ‘e’s just done it all over me best pants.’

The following morning there was bright sunshine and Ed talked the stableboys into allowing Freedom to ride. ‘Yer know, lads, if ‘e wasn’t a champion boxer ‘e could ‘ave been a jockey, will you look at ‘im with that animal, bloody marvel, my God ‘e’s a wonderful fella.’ Ed glowed with pride and beamed at Mr Plath as he strode through the stableyard.

‘Ah, Meadows, all the servants are to gather in the main hall for Christmas gift time, will you instruct your party to be in the hall on the dot of eight?’

‘Now, Freda, there’s no need to get all uppity, all they want is us all gathered, like. Sir Charles hands out ‘is gifts to the servants, see, then we ‘ave a shindig, a dance in the ballroom.’

Freda pursed her lips, furious to be classed with the servants.

Evelyne laughed, ‘Oh, come on, Freda, it’ll be fun, and you can get all dressed up. Of course we’re not servants, well, not any more.’

Ed refrained from pointing out to the two women that while they might not be staff, both he and Freedom were employed by Sir Charles. He was too relieved that Evelyne had accepted it and even seemed bent on enjoying her stay at The Grange.

Promptly at eight, not a minute before or after, the staff lined up in the hall. It was impressive to watch, there were kitchen maids, scullery maids, ladies’ maids, butlers, footmen, valets, cooks, gardeners, stableboys, dog handlers, gunsmiths. Miss Balfour stood at one end of the hall with the general house manager, the estate manager and two secretaries. In a small group slightly apart from the general household staff stood Ed, Freda, Freedom and Evelyne.

Everyone wore their Sunday best or their immaculate uniforms, and the line of more than forty people stood as though on parade. It dawned on Evelyne just how wealthy this household was, how could some have so much and others so little?

Miss Balfour shook hands with Freedom and congratulated him as if she was telling him he’d brought in muck from the stables, ‘Sir Charles will be coming down any moment, he will wish you all a happy Christmas, and then you are to file past him one at a time …’

At that moment he appeared on the staircase, and there was a sudden hush. In clipped tones he wished every one of them a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year, thanked them for all their good work, and hoped they would remain one big family.

Sir Charles handed Ed and Freda their gifts, polite, charming, and then turned to Freedom, who received the same cordial handshake with his neatly wrapped gift. Evelyne felt humiliated, as if she was lined up in the poorhouse, and accepted her token gift with lowered eyes, not once looking into the monocle.

‘Do hope you will enjoy the dance, thank you for your service.’

‘Well, manushi, I suppose we should go an’ perform for our lord and master.’

Evelyne muttered that Sir Charles might be his lord, but he certainly wasn’t hers.

In the ballroom a small orchestra played a waltz. Evelyne removed the heavy coat she was wearing over the satin gown Sir Charles had bought her in Cardiff, and got many admiring glances. Freda had shortened it, sewn on a few sequins to freshen it up, and arranged Evelyne’s hair the way Freedom liked it in a long braid down her back with ribbon threaded through, green to match her eyes. This was the only time of year that Sir Charles actually mixed with his servants so it was quite an occasion.

Tables were laid for Sir Charles and his guests at one end of the ballroom, with pristine white cloths, silver and crystal, but they were empty as yet. A long buffet at one side was covered with cloths, and tables were ranged round the other walls for the staff. Evelyne and Freedom sat with Freda and Ed and a group of the stableboys. Ed and Freedom were sitting with their heads close together, discussing boxing as usual, and Freda gave Evelyne a little shake of her head and a shrug.

The orchestra played on, and the evening began to liven up as they all did the hokey-cokey around the room. Everyone was in high spirits, singing at the tops of their voices, ‘You put your right foot in, right foot out, in, out, in out, and shake it all about … and that’s what it’s all about … Oh, the hokey-cokey, oh, the hokey-cokey … Knees bend, arms stretch, Ra! Ra! Ra!’

During the dance Sir Charles and his guests arrived and crossed the floor to their reserved tables. When the music ended Freda flopped down in her chair, fanning herself with her hankie, ‘Oh, I’m too old, too old for this kind of dance, darlink, I must have a long drink.’

Evelyne laughed. She was flushed, too, and she headed for the table where drinks were being served. She turned to look over at Sir Charles’ table, and her heart stopped.

David Collins was standing staring across the ballroom. He was lighting a cigarette in a thin gold holder. She had forgotten how handsome he was, how refined. She was josded along the queue for drinks, and asked for two lemonades. As she waited for them she saw Sir Charles gesturing to Freedom to join his table. Evelyne stood on tiptoe to watch as Freedom bent to kiss Lady Primrose’s hand, then pulled out a chair to sit down. His back was to Evelyne and David was on his right. Freedom must have said something amusing, as the whole group laughed.

Taking a roundabout route Evelyne went back to her table, avoiding Sir Charles’ group. She sat down as Freda brought two plates piled so high with food it was spilling on to the cloth. ‘My darlink, eat, eat, I have never seen so much glorious food.’

Evelyne smiled, but her eyes strayed constantly to David as she sipped her drink. Lady Primrose stood up and pulled at Freedom’s arm, dragging him on to the dance floor. Evelyne felt sorry for him, she didn’t know if he could dance and wondered if she should go to his rescue, but that would mean meeting David.

Holding hands, Freedom and Lady Primrose walked over to the orchestra, and he tapped the conductor on the shoulder and spoke to him. Still waving his baton, the conductor nodded his head. Evelyne wondered what had been said and was fascinated to see how relaxed Freedom was, he seemed almost on intimate terms with Her Ladyship.

The orchestra struck up a tango, and on to the floor glided Freedom, his hand out for Lady Primrose to follow. She giggled and looked towards her table, then stood as Freedom demonstrated a step. A few couples stood and watched as he waited for the beat to begin the dance. He closed his eyes and stood quite still, head up, then slowly began to dance, clicking his heels in Romany style, putting the whole room to shame as he glided elegandy across the floor. After a short solo he swept Lady Primrose into his arms and she laughed, throwing her head back. Then, the show over, he began to teach her the steps.

Evelyne was so astounded by Freedom’s dancing that she was unaware of David’s approach until he was standing direcdy behind her chair. ‘I don’t know if I can tango, but I’m willing to try, would you do me the honour, Evie?’

Startled, she turned to him, then told him curtly that she didn’t tango. He promptly sat down, insisting he could wait for a waltz. He glanced at his wife on the dance door, then back to Evelyne. ‘You’ve not changed, not at all.’

She saw his eyes flick over her dress and she bit her lip, she knew he recognized it. He had changed. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and a slight gauntness. His blue eyes were paler than ever. He still smelt of flowers, and was as fresh and clean as his starched white collar. The orchestra began a slow waltz and he held his hand out to her, smiling softly. They stood up and began to dance, Evelyne overpowered by David’s closeness, his blond hair brushing her face as he held her close, manoeuvring her around the polished floor.

Freda looked at them with a worried frown and swivelled in her chair to see where Freedom was. Through the throng of dancers she could see him leaning on the back of Lady Primrose’s chair. She watched him take the delicate hand and began to read her palm and suddenly realized he was a bit of a lady-killer, and by the look of Primrose she was responding to his charm.

Lady Primrose could smell Freedom’s musky perfume — sweet, strange and exciting, as he was — and his touch on her hand was gentle as he traced the lines on her palm. Giggling, she told Sir Charles she didn’t believe in all this mumbo-jumbo, and pulled her hand away, taken aback by the expression on her cousin’s face. He was staring at Freedom, his eyes furious. When he caught Primrose looking at him, he turned away and blushed the scarlet of his monocle ribbon. It was obvious that the gypsy boxer had powers which were not necessarily confined to fortune-telling.

David didn’t know what to say to Evelyne, he kept trying to think of some way to start a conversation, but then stopped before speaking. He could feel her in his arms, so close and yet so many miles away. There was so much he wanted to tell her — needed to tell her — but they danced on and he remained silent. Going back through the years in her mind, Evelyne turned around and came back again. Here she was, dancing close, very close, to the man she had believed she loved, so close that if she turned her cheek she could kiss his lips, and yet nothing could be further from her thoughts. He had shrunk, she was sure of it. She was taller than him now, and that cloyingly sweet perfume was surely not the one she used to wear. His eyes were so pale they seemed filled with tears, and as if he were reading her thoughts he suddenly stopped dancing and sighed, ‘I need some air, which way should I go?

Evelyne sat on the balcony steps, feeling cold, and David took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Do you remember everything now, David? How I used to come and visit you? Do you remember?’

His head twitched, his mouth working. He reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers, pulled her closer, ‘You are the most beautiful creature, that is what I remember most — and you have filled out to perfection, to perfection.’

His free hand traced her bosom, heavy with milk for her son.

‘Please don’t do that.’

He smiled, kissed her neck softly, and she gasped.

‘You liked it once, you like it now: excite me, excite me, set me on fire.’

She looked around; he was holding her hand tightly, hurting her fingers, pulling her close, and he forced her head back, kissed her “just as he had kissed her that night in his car, forcing her mouth open with his tongue.

‘No, don’t, please, please … Let go of me, please.’

He held her even tighter. ‘What’s the matter with you, you liked it once, I remember. I remember that, you liked it, you loved me.’

Evelyne looked at him, amazed. How could she have been so foolish? ‘That was a long time ago, David, I think we should go back into the ballroom.’

He grasped her shoulders, tight. She didn’t push him away, but neither did she encourage him. She whispered, ‘What do you want from me?’

‘You know, what’s the matter? Not good enough for you now? Tell me, what have you set your sights on for tonight? My God, for a little slut you certainly have done well for yourself, I have to hand it to you, wormed your way in here very nicely …’

Evelyne drew back her right hand and slapped David’s face so hard that he reeled.

‘I am a married woman, with a son, how dare you make such insinuations, how dare you?’

He laughed, a humourless, barking sound, a sarcastic smile on his face. ‘You are still for sale, Evie, and to the highest bidder, your type always are and you know it.’

He was about to move away when she gripped his arm. ‘I’ve never been for sale, David, just poor. Is that a crime? You sicken me, for if there’s anyone selling themselves it’s been you … I loved you with a passion, a childish, naive passion that you abused, just like you abused your own friend, Freddy … How’s your wife? You knew he loved her, and yet you had to have her. Why, David? Because she’s titled? Because she had money? It’s you who’s been for sale, David, you … you’re nothing. Go back to your high society, your rich friends who laugh at you behind your back!’

He backed away from her, wringing his hands. ‘You know, you’re terribly wrong about one thing, my wife, I love her, I always have, but she makes a fool of me … a public fool.’ His voice was childish, pitiful, and to Evelyne’s dismay he started to cry. His shoulders shook, and he stuttered through his sobs, ‘We’re stony broke, all my fault. I lost my way, Evie, so long ago, lost my way, you see …’

He lifted his hands to Evelyne, a helpless gesture, then she saw the familiar habit he had of sweeping his hair back. His signet ring glinted. ‘Damned wretched business, can’t seem to hold on to anything … my father short-changed me, ya know, should have given me a sharp rap across the knuckles, but instead he encouraged me, because …’

He turned away from her, rested his hands on the balcony rail. ‘… Because he wanted me to succeed. Laughable, really — get in with the right set, Mother always used to say — and here I am, cap in hand, begging from Charles because we’re penniless.’

‘Why don’t you work? You were studying to be a lawyer.’

His voice was soft, full of pain. ‘I can’t remember things, hardly the best credentials for the Law Society …’ His eyes pleaded with her, ‘I don’t remember, Evie, I pretend I do, but so help me God, I don’t, because … because I’m scared. Sometimes when I have been with you I recall pictures — Mrs Darwin, my father …’

She knew he was lying, she sensed it, lying like a guilty child. She moved closer, almost touching him, ‘David, you can remember. What happened? What happened to you?’

He stared at her as if cornered, trapped. He shook his head and she inched even closer. ‘What did you do that made you so afraid? Tell me? You can tell me.’

She held him in her arms, felt him trembling, smoothed his hair, patted the silky hair she had longed to touch all those years before. ‘You know, David, in a way you don’t belong here either, you are as much out of your depth as I am. Whatever you did surely can’t make you hide for the rest of your life?’

His face altered, the child disappeared. His slender grasp of reality began to slip. His mouth turned down and his face twisted in fury at her assumption that he was no better than she, as if they were of the same class. When he spoke he had reverted to his usual, over-precise speech pattern. ‘I’m not hiding, duckie, what do you take me for? I know what you bloody are.’ He made a grab for her breast, ripping her gown.

Neither of them had heard Freedom’s soft footstep, or were aware that he had been standing close by. With one swift move he gripped David’s jacket and tossed him aside.

‘It was that bitch’s fault, don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’

For one moment Evelyne would have liked Freedom to throw David over the balcony, then she turned, looking for help to stop him.

Ed had been searching for Freedom since Freda had told him David and Evelyne had disappeared together. As he came around the side of the house, he saw Freedom dragging David along the balcony and ran as fast as his fat legs would carry him.

‘Freedom … Freedom! Evelyne, stop him, for God’s sake. Stop him!’ He launched himself on to Freedom’s back and tried to pull him off the hysterical David. Freda and one of the stable lads ran out on to the balcony and the boy tried to help Ed control Freedom, but they were no match for him, and it was not until two more lads came running that they were able to haul Freedom away from the weeping man.

David flailed his arms in the air, his voice a high-pitched shriek. ‘How dare you, how dare you manhandle me, I’ll have you horsewhipped, you animal!’

It was a grotesque, embarrassing scene, and Ed tried his damnedest to calm everyone down. ‘Show’s over — it was nothing, just a bit of fun. Everybody go back inside, it’s over … You all right, sir?’

He put his arm around David’s shoulders, trying to smooth his jacket, but David pushed him away.

‘Don’t touch me, get away from me, all of you, you rabble, you common bastards!’

Shaking he arranged his handkerchief in his breast pocket and smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. ‘I shall be a gentleman and forget this ever happened.’

He gave Evelyne a strange, disdainful look, turned, his head held high, and made a sad, foolish exit, still trying desperately to hold on to his dignity.

One of the stableboys looked at Ed, ‘You need us, Mr Meadows?’

All eyes turned to Freedom and Evelyne. As if they were animals in a circus ring, they waited for the roar. The pair of them faced each other and the atmosphere was so highly-charged that no one dared speak. Then Evelyne walked away. She heard scuffling behind her and raised voices, but she hurried on, almost afraid to turn back and see what was happening.

Ed was trying to persuade Freedom not to ride, not at this hour of the night — it was dark and the horse could fall. The head stableboy stuttered that Sir Charles would hit the roof, and received the snarling reply, ‘Bugger Sir Charles.’ No one had the nerve to try to stop Freedom as he galloped off without a saddle, leaving Ed thinking, ‘There’s Freedom’s best suit ruined,’ and silently praying his champion wouldn’t fall. He was doubly concerned because Freedom had taken Sir Charles’ prize stallion. God help them all if anything happened to the horse, never mind Freedom.

If Ed had watched for another second he would have had a heart attack as Freedom and the horse jumped a five-foot wall and headed for the forest.

The baby was sleeping, his thumb stuck in his mouth, and his warmth and peacefulness touched Evelyne. She lifted him gently out of the bizarre cradle they had brought from London and sat by the fire, rocking him in her arms. She closed her eyes, vowing to herself that he would never have to endure the humiliation she had known. She hated being poor, being subjected to ridicule. Growing steadily inside her were seeds of loathing for the so-called aristocracy.

If only Freedom would educate himself, beat them at their own game, learn to use them as they were using him. She was even more determined that she would teach him to read and write, make him learn. She shuddered when David came into her thoughts. He’d called her a slut. Well, she would not waste her time on him any more, he was out of her life. She looked down into her son’s face, touched his head.

‘You see, Edward, David’s trouble is that he got given all the opportunities a man could have, but he frittered them away. You know why? Because he won’t face up to being who he is. It doesn’t matter, Edward, where you come from. Titles? Half of them don’t have two pennies to rub together … You’re going to be somebody, be successful, be powerful and not need anyone. You have to want it and fight for it — not with your fists, like your dad, that isn’t good enough. No, you’re going to have to fight for an education and I’ll be right alongside you. I’ll kill for you to have it, so help me God I will — you’ll never be any man’s servant.’

Hours later Freedom came home to find the curtain drawn across the window and Evelyne already in bed. She heard him kicking off his shoes and knew he would be scattering his clothes all over the room. She got up and pulled her cardigan round her shoulders, checked that the baby was asleep, and opened the curtain quietly so Freedom did not hear her.

He was sitting by the fire, staring into the coals, his bare chest gleaming in the firelight. Evelyne curled up at his feet, squeezing her body between his knees. He didn’t speak and made no effort to hold her, but at the same time he did not push her away. For a few minutes they sat in silence, and then Evelyne began to tell him, softly, everything there was to know about her and David — how much she had loved him in a childish, romantic fantasy way, and how he had humiliated and hurt her … how even tonight he had made her feel like a second-class citizen, because of his background, his money. When Freedom had found them David was crying like a baby because he couldn’t have what he wanted, she had refused his advances. Not that he really wanted her — he never had — she was poor, something that could be bought, and thrown away when he had tired of her.

‘We may be poor, but our son will have everything, and you know what everything is, Freedom? Us, you and me beside him always. He’s going to have what we never had, proper schooling, education. We can have that for free, but love costs a lot more, you know that?’

He didn’t really understand what she was saying, but the fact that she had told him everything about David without his asking made him reach to hold her. He was so proud of her, the fight in her. He built up the fire until it blazed and brought the mattress from their bed, put it in front of the fire. Then he took off her long cotton nightdress and laid her down on the mattress, naked in the firelight. She loved him all the more. David’s weakness emphasized his strength, and she lifted her arms to him. He knelt beside her and kissed her, and they made love as they had in the enchanted summer months out in the fields. Since the child’s birth he had been gentle and caring, but now he loved her roughly, taking her time and time again until they lay sweating, their bodies close, so close, their love deepening, bonding them together.

‘Don’t ever betray me, manushi, not ever. It would set a demon loose inside me, and I wouldn’t care what happened to me, do ye understand what I am saying, gel?’

Evelyne did, she too had felt that surge of jealousy when she had seen him dancing with Lady Primrose, and it was a new emotion. She felt she would kill if anyone ever tried to take him from her. She turned in his arms and stroked his long hair, placed her hand to his heart, ‘And we must always talk, Freedom, be honest with each other, never pretend or lie.’

He lay back and thought about what she had said, about them being there for their son. It had never occurred to Freedom that he had never had a father, but then the elders of the camp acted in that role. Evelyne told him the difference, what it had been like with her Da, the closeness, the strong bond between them. She sat up and prodded the fire, snuggled down in his arms and asked him what he knew of the man who had fathered him. He could remember little, just that his mother had been very young, she was a Tachey Romany chat, of high blood, her father a prince and her mother the dukkerin of the camp. Her family had visited a village in the Rhondda and she had seen with her ‘eye’ the boy, tall as a tree, she said, and so rinkeney he had made her heart stop. She had known immediately that she wanted him. Freedom reverted to his Romany tongue as he described his mother, and the tall, wild man the village had nicknamed ‘The Lion’.

During the telling Freedom sat up, slightly apart from Evelyne, and she suddenly clutched him, hugged him, desperately. She clamped her hand over his mouth to prevent him going any further, ‘No, no, don’t say any more. Dear God, don’t say any more.’

He had to prise her away from him, she was that strong. He lifted her bodily, and from her face he knew something was terribly wrong, it frightened him. ‘Oh, God, Freedom, what have we done?’ She wanted to scream, she covered her own mouth with her hands, afraid she would cry out and wake the child … she bit her hand so hard he could see her teeth sinking into the flesh, her whole body trembling. When he pulled her hand away her sobs shook her, and she tried to push him away from her.

Holding him at arm’s length she finished his story for him; her voice harsh, each word bringing her pain. She told him of his mother, how she had stood at the pithead and waited for her ‘lion’, how the man had laughed and she had cursed him. It was Freedom’s turn to freeze, how did she know — how was she able to tell something he had never told another soul?

‘Oh, don’t you see, don’t you understand …’ Whatever reaction she anticipated, something akin to her own horror, never came. Instead Freedom lay back and started to laugh, a deep, throaty laugh. She stood up, stark naked, and kicked him, shouting. How could he laugh, how could he? He caught her foot and brought her crashing down beside him. She tried to fight him off, but he was so strong it was useless. He rolled on top of her, grasping her wrists above her head, holding them tightly, ‘Tell me everything about him. Let me know everything. Am I like him? Tell me, tell me.’ ‘Are you not afraid — that we have the same blood?’ He released her arms, caught her to him so tightly she could hardly breathe, ‘Blood to blood, Evie, we are closer, closer, do you not see that?’

His acceptance of the fact that they were even closer, bonded by blood, was at first frightening to Evelyne. Then his mood caught her, and to her amazement she found herself laughing with him.

‘No one must know, Evie, they’d not understand.’ He had no need to tell her that, she knew it, and even her fears for the child of such close blood were dispersed. They picked up their sleeping baby son and held him between them, and he opened his eyes and stared up into the two adoring faces.

‘Our son is near pure Tatchey. He’ll have the powers, Evie, and look at his strong body.’

To their delight, Edward gurgled and laughed up at them, and at that moment there was magic in the night, the red flames from the fire flickering on their naked bodies.

Later, while Evelyne slept, Freedom took out a hunting knife and made a cut on his forefinger. He squeezed it until the blood formed a heavy drop, then crept to the baby’s cradle. He let the blood drip slowly on to the sleeping child’s forehead. The stain spread, forming a cross, and Freedom’s voice was a whisper as he buried the curse his mother, the clan’s dukkerin, had laid on Hugh Jones.