The Legacy

Chapter 22

Life moved at a fast pace after that Christmas at The Grange. Freedom was still the undefeated British Heavyweight Champion, and British Empire Heavyweight Champion … he fought in Liverpool, Birmingham, Porthcawl, Edinburgh, and Manchester. Evelyne did not accompany him on these travels, but stayed at home in the East End. Freedom was a celebrity, money was not short, and Evelyne kept a close watch on the purse strings. Their house was well furnished, and some items had been passed on to Ed and Miss Freda, even Ed’s brother and sister-in-law Billy and Mary Meadows. The neighbours watched with avid interest as number twelve even had carpet laid all down the stairs. There was no jealousy, they were proud, and welcomed the distinction of having a champion living in their street.

Edward was almost two years old, a handsome child, tall for his age. He was very strong, and never still, so that it took all Evelyne’s time to keep an eye on him. He had a terrible temper, and threw such tantrums that their neighbours would say, ‘There goes that little bugger again.’ But they would smile, as everyone knew how the little lad adored his father. As soon as he saw his dad coming down the road, Edward would run out, arms outstretched and shouting with delight. Proud as Punch, Freedom would swing the lad up on to his shoulders.

Sir Charles kept a close but discreet watch over Freedom’s successful career. He was determined that ‘The Gypsy’ would try for the world championship. It was only a matter of time until a fight was arranged in America.

They were getting close when the news came that the great Dempsey, the man known as the ‘Manassa Mauler’, had lost his title to Gene Tunney. Sir Charles was delighted. Tunney now reigned as World Heavyweight Champion, and his reputation was on a par with Dempsey’s at his peak. The new champion appeared invincible and was taking on all challengers.

Ed Meadows arrived at number twelve, his face alight with excitement. ‘Where is he … Freedom!’

The moment Freedom looked up from the table he was building and saw Ed, he knew something big was on, ‘Is it America, Ed?’

Unable to speak, Ed clasped Freedom in his arms, and the two men danced around the kitchen.

Evelyne returned from shopping to find Freedom out and a dozen bottles of champagne on the table. When she took a quick look at the price, she had to sit down. She had to watch his spending all the time. When he went abroad, he always brought back lavish gifts and wouldn’t hear a word from Evelyne about the cost. Neither did he discuss the fights themselves with her, avoiding her questions with shrugs and laughs. His face was still ummarked so Evelyne never really knew what it took for him to get into the ring or, for that matter, what punishment he had taken.

Freedom came back with his arms full of turkeys and fruit.

‘Lord, man, what on earth have you been doing? I’ve already been to the shops.’

Putting everything down he caught her in his arms. ‘Ah, well, this is a farewell dinner, for the street, then you’d best pack your things. We leave for America and this time you’ll be with me, it’ll be the trip of a lifetime.’

Evelyne hugged him, ‘Is it the world championship?’

He swung her round, lifted her in the air, ‘Aye, it is, and I’m going to take it from Tunney.’

‘Well, you’d best put me down. Any more of this tossing me in the air and you’ll hurt the baby.’

Freedom lowered her gently and cupped her face in his hands. ‘We’ll take Edward with us, and I’ll take great care of thee …’ Suddenly what she had just said dawned on him … he yelped with joy. ‘Are you sure?’

Evelyne laughed and said she was more than sure, she was three months gone.

The excitement of packing and arranging for their departure made the weeks pass so fast Evelyne could hardly believe it when they arrived at Southampton Docks with Freda, Ed and a pile of luggage. There was their ship, their home for the next three weeks, looming so large it took everyone’s breath away. RMS Aquitania was majestic, dwarfing the small group at the dockside. It wasn’t a ship, it was a floating city.

A steward led them to their cabins, pointing out various features along the way. The restaurant, with an oak-beamed ceiling and leaded windowpanes, seated seven hundred people. A long gallery led to what could only be described as a high street, with shops that included ladies’ and gentlemen’s outfitters displaying all the latest fashions in lighted window displays. There was a huge main lounge at the end of the gallery — a glorious, stunning room, as large as a concert hall, thickly carpeted and with a magnificent domed ceiling. All the chairs and settees were upholstered in the finest fabrics. There was even a post and telegraph office, unlike any the bemused group had ever seen. Adjoining it was the library, a big, square room with hundreds of books, and there was no charge for borrowing them.

Freedom had trailed around without much interest, but when he saw the gym his eyes lit up. There were parallel bars, horizontal bars, electric — yes, electric — cycling machines, and even a riding machine that rocked backwards and forwards as if you were on a real-life bucking bronco. There were also rowing machines, fencing masks and foils, boxing gloves and punchbags. Ed and Freedom stood and stared, awestruck.

The steward turned back the bedcovers and opened some of the many wardrobes and dressing-table drawers to show Evelyne. He also told them about the full-time nursery with a nanny to take care of the child at night if the passengers had not brought servants with them. He hovered for a while, then proffered a crumpled piece of paper and asked if Freedom would autograph it for him. He was so pleased, he didn’t even wait for a tip.

Freedom lay back on the bed and smiled, ‘Happy …? You like it?’

From the massive funnels of the Aquitania the hooter sounded, the ship was about to sail. They went up on deck and waved to no one, just the disappearing docks.

That evening, the dining room was a hubbub of noise as they took their seats, and Freda’s mouth watered as she peered shortsightedly at the menu. It was written in French and confused everyone else, but Freda prattled away, iTurbot poche en sauce fenouil, epinards, pommes frites… oh, la la, rouget grille beurre diable… darlinks, it’s just divine … noisettes d’agneau Maltaise, ris de veau, cotelettes de volatile aux haricots panaches … It is fantastic, darlinks.’

Ed settled for the lamb cutlets, Freedom a steak, and Evelyne, after a long explanation from Freda, chose fish. They started with caviare served on crisp toast with finely chopped onions and egg yolks. They were mightily impressed, and Freda’s exuberance and obvious delight in everything was very infectious.

Freedom insisted Ed.accompany him to the menswear shop where the pair of them were measured for black tie and tails. Ed did try to prevent the expenditure, but Freedom laughed, asked him how much Dempsey had received for a single fight. ‘You know, lad, it were more than five hundred, and bugger me yer right. You’re gonna take that title, so mister, bring that shirt with the nice pearl buttons and one for the champ here.’ The more Ed talked of how much Dempsey had made, the more expansive he became, smoking a Havana cigar, flicking the ash on the assistant’s head as he pinned up six inches on his new trousers.

They had all been invited to dine with Sir Charles, and Freedom and Ed cut quite a dash in their penguin suits as they strolled along the deck to Sir Charles’ opulent stateroom. Seeing everyone shaking hands with his champion, admiring him as they sauntered along, rubbed off on Ed. He was having the time of his life.

Freda and Evelyne followed their men, arm-in-arm, laughing at the contrast between Ed with his waddle and Freedom with his cocksure stride, towering above Ed.

Sir Charles was equally enthusiastic, warmly welcoming them to his suite. ‘Here he is, everyone, this is my champion.’

As usual, Sir Charles had invited a roomful of elegant guests. The dinner was very formal with four waiters hovering to look after them. Freda insisted on speaking French to the waiter who served her, which nonplussed him as he came from Bradford.

Freedom was being very attentive to the attractive blonde woman on his right. Evelyne excused herself, saying she must see to her child, and the gentlemen rose, half-heartedly. Freedom seemed unaware she had left.

On her way back to her cabin Evelyne stood for a while watching the dark sea. Strains of music drifted up from the ballroom and slowly she began to waltz along the deck — one, two three, one, two three … she stopped to sit in a deckchair. Suddenly the lovely, balmy night was too good to miss.

She heard Freedom’s voice and rushed to the rail to look over and call to him to come and sit with her. She could see him, with the blonde on his arm, strolling along the deck below her with some of the other dinner guests, towards the ballroom. Evelyne had never felt so jealous in her life. She wanted to go down and dance with him, but she couldn’t. She was fat and ugly while the blonde was so beautiful and slim, not pregnant, not so tall.

She watched Freedom’s progress, inching down the steps to get a better view. There was applause, and there he was, bowing and smiling. A waltz was being played and Evelyne could see him with his arms wrapped around a small woman. She was beginning to feel furious when the couple did a twirl and she could see that he was hugging Freda in his arms. They danced towards the open deck, and Evelyne stepped into the concealing shadows on the stairs. Their voices could be heard clearly below her.

‘Oh, oh, I am so dizzy, darlink.’

‘Aye, well, I had to have some excuse, Freda, that woman was hanging on my arm so I couldn’t leave.’ They leant on the rails, looking out at the sea. ‘Does the sea not remind you of my Evie’s eyes, Freda? Freda …?’

She had slithered down and was sitting on the deck, the champagne and wine too much for her. Freedom picked her up and put her over his shoulder. Evelyne put her hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling as the blonde lady appeared. ‘Oh, Mr Stubbs, don’t tell me you are leaving so early.’

‘I’m afraid so, ma’am, my partner here has overexerted herself

‘Oh, do come back, we are all going for a midnight swim.’

‘Aye, well, it’s a nice night for it.’

The blonde was joined by another woman and they watched Freedom stride off. ‘Oh, he’s so manly, Gertrude, and so strong, he really is.’

‘Now, now, Mabel, he’s a married man.’

The blonde giggled, twirled around. ‘That’s never stood in my way before, darling.’

Evelyne had heard enough. She bent over the railings and spoke to the astonished Mabel. ‘It had better stand in your way when it comes to my husband, miss, or you’ll get more than you bargain for.’

Mabel nearly fainted as Evelyne marched off down the deck.

When the time came to dock in New York, they stood together on the deck to watch as the huge ship eased its way into the harbour. Towering above them was the Statue of Liberty, and Freedom lifted Edward up on to his shoulders to see her. The ship’s hooters screamed and streamers and confetti scattered from the top decks while a band played; everyone’s excitement was at fever pitch. They had arrived in New York. Freedom slipped one arm around Evelyne, his face serious and his voice quiet.

‘When we go home, Evie, I’ll be world champion. I promise you.’

The wonders of America did not stop at the docks, A limousine was waiting to drive them to an airport, from which they were to fly by mail plane to Chicago. Even the garrulous Ed was stunned into silence. Sir Charles bent down to talk to them through the window of their car. ‘I’ll be flying with you, see you there … Ed, you’ve got the itinerary, the hotel booking and the tickets. Have to get a move on, the plane leaves in two hours.’

As they sped through the streets, they stared at the towering buildings in awe, but their sightseeing tour was short and they soon arrived at the small airstrip.

They had accepted the fact that they would be flying as if Sir Charles had said they were going by train, but when they saw the fragile aircraft on the landing strip it really sank in.

‘Oh, Ed, darlink, I think I am going to faint, I do. Are we really going up in that little thing?’

Freedom hugged Evelyne to him, ‘You scared, manushi?’

She shook her head, trying to keep hold of Edward who jumped up and down in uncontrollable excitement.

Sir Charles was elated to be flying, and as soon as they climbed on board he sat next to the pilot. Freedom held Evelyne’s hand, his son on his knee, and they looked out of the single, small window. They were a little frightened, and were not reassured by Sir Charles bellowing instructions to the pilot. The faithful old Dewhurst sat with his rosary in his hands, eyes closed and praying, all through the journey.

As they prepared to land, Sir Charles strapped himself into his seat, a glint in his monocled eye. ‘This is thrilling, absolutely thrilling.’

The plane bounced on to the landing strip, and they all turned a little green, but were thankful to be down and in one piece. Dewhurst’s knees gave way and he had to be helped down the stairs, constandy apologizing to Sir Charles.

‘Freda, I think I’m dying, oh God, I’m dying, my heart it’s my heart.’ Freda gave Ed a big hug and told him he could open his eyes; they had landed, everyone else had already left the plane.

‘Gawd ‘elp us, Freda, I feel as if I was still up in the clouds.’

Sir Charles had been driven into Chicago, leaving the others to wait for Ed and Freda with the longest car any of them had ever seen. It was silver, and the chauffeur wore a blue uniform. They climbed into the Cadillac limousine, and Ed flipped through the itinerary and instructed the driver to take them to the Lexington Hotel. Sir Charles, he noticed, had ‘The State’ suite in The Sherman Hotel. He still as always kept his distance, and Ed knew it would be costing more than all their rooms put together … but as His Lordship was footing the bill for the trip, it was his prerogative.

The journey into the city was almost as exciting as their voyage, once they had overcome their nervousness at travelling on the wrong side of the road. Immensely long cars whizzed by, drawing gasps of admiration. The chauffeur gazed at them through his mirror and when he spoke his accent made Freda giggle.

‘You folks from England? Well, jeez, ain’t that great, I never been outta Chicago myself; that’s the state capitol we just passed.’

He asked them endless questions, while stealing glances at the ‘black guy’ with the long hair. He thought they looked pretty scruffy, but they must have dough to be staying at the Lexington.

When they arrived at the hotel, Ed realized he had no American dollars so he had to go to the hotel bank to change his English pound notes. Two porters carried their luggage into the hotel and the limousine drove off. They pushed through the revolving doors after the porters, Freedom lagging behind as he struggled with several pieces of hand luggage, including his kitbag. The mahogany reception desk was immensely long and at least eight uniformed bellhops rushed around in the lobby, which was crowded with guests and potted palms.

The manager looked through the glass-fronted door of his office and pursed his lips. He could see the new guests checking in and didn’t like what he saw. He made a quick call to the receptionist to tell the assistant manager to come to see him immediately.

Ed couldn’t understand what was causing the delay. They were all very tired, and Edward had started to cry. Ed showed the receptionist the telegram confirming their rooms. He was beginning to get impatient as no one seemed in the slightest hurry to register them and hand over their keys.

The assistant manager, flushing beetroot red, hurried from the office, lifted the mahogany flap and slipped in behind the desk. ‘I’m afraid there has been some mistake. We only have one room booked, Mr Meadows. I cannot apologize enough, but I’m afraid the rest of your party will have to find accommodation elsewhere.’

Ed was confused as he crossed the lobby to Freedom and Evelyne to tell them of the situation. The little boy was really beginning to scream now, so Ed suggested that Freedom and Evelyne take his room; he and Freda could find another hotel. He returned to the reception desk and asked for the key for his companions to take the room.

‘I’m sorry, sir, that is not possible, I am afraid we cannot accept your companions, that is the hotel rule.’

What on earth was the man talking about? Ed’s protests grew louder and then, to his astonishment, the assistant manager pushed a card across the counter. Neatly printed on it were the words, ‘No coloureds or blacks to be allowed as guests of the Lexington Hotel.’

Ed stared at him, confused, then picked up the card and reread it. ‘What’s this got to do wiv us, for Gawd’s sake?’ Ed jabbed the manager with his finger and pushed the card forward, his voice rising as he demanded to know what was going on. He had personally sent a telegram to the hotel for two double rooms, one with a cot for a child, and now he was told there was only one room vacant and his friends couldn’t move into it. Sensing an impending explosion, the manager drew Ed quietly aside and repeated the hotel policy that no coloureds and no couples of mixed race were allowed in the hotel.

‘Mixed what? What you talkin’ about, mate, we ain’t black, what you think we are?’

The manager turned and flicked a look at Freedom, then turned back to Ed. Suddenly it was painfully clear, they thought Freedom was black. Indeed, because of the sunshine on the crossing, his dark skin was even darker. Ed spluttered and could hardly speak with rage. ‘He’s contender for the World Heavyweight boxing title, for Chrissake, he’s not black, he’s a gypsy! That don’t make him black.’

Freedom handed his son to Evelyne and began to cross the lobby towards Ed. The next moment the place was in an uproar, as Ed knocked out the manager with one punch. Ten minutes later they were on the pavement outside the hotel, Freda in tears and Ed so angry he could hardly speak.

‘We ain’t stayin’ in this dump, any of us, come on, we’ll get a taxi an’ see where there’s a better hotel.’

Freedom pulled the still furious Ed aside and asked what on earth had happened in there. Ed wouldn’t say, but he hailed a taxi and ushered them all into it.

They stopped at two more hotels and Ed went in alone to investigate, but at each one he was told, ‘No coloureds’. While he was in the second one the cabbie, who had been staring at Freedom, realized what was going on. ‘Most of da hotels around dis part of the city don’t take blacks. I know a place where maybe they’ll let you in, you want me to try there for ya?’ He hooked his arm along die back of the seat and looked enquiringly at the party in the back. They stared at him, not understanding what he was saying. He pointed to Freedom and repeated that there was a rule in the best hotels, no coloureds and no Indians. Some even refused Mexicans. A defeated Ed returned to the cab, and now that they all understood the predicament he blushed in shame for them. ‘I’m sorry, lad, I told ‘em all you wasn’t black, but they don’t believe me.’

Evelyne was silent, but as they drove off she saw in the distance a huge hotel towering above the shops and apartment buildings. The Metropole Hotel, 2300 South Michigan Avenue.

‘Driver, take us to that hotel, please, and, Ed, I want to go in this time.’ She would hear no argument, even when the cab driver tried to dissuade her, implying that the Metropole, of all hotels, would most certainly refuse them. Freedom said nothing, he was so taken aback, but the driver went on ominously about the Metropole and that he would lay odds” against their being allowed in, not just because of Freedom but for other reasons. Evelyne repeated her instruction to take them to the hotel and gripped Freedom’s hand.

As they stopped, Ed made to get out, but Evelyne wouldn’t let him move. She insisted on leaving them alone and, head high, she walked into the lobby.

‘She’ll get no joy in dere, pal, I’m tellin’ya, I know dis town an’ I know dis hotel, ya tryin’ the wrong place.’

All their eyes followed Evelyne as she walked from the cab through the revolving doors and into the ornate lobby.

Inside it was opulent, thickly carpeted, with massive ferns and palms in every corner. There was so much brass and so many chandeliers that the whole lobby seemed to glitter.

Evelyne strode to the reception desk, a long, polished counter with racks of keys and pigeonholes for letters. She had to wait for a gentleman in front of her to sign the register, a burly, fat man smoking a cigar. The clouds of smoke rose up to form a ring around his head.

A clerk, seeing Evelyne waiting, hurried forward to attend to her.

‘I wish to book two double rooms, one with a child’s cot, and private bathrooms, please.’

The clerk reached for the register and thumbed through the pages.

‘There will be a Mr and Mrs Ed Meadows, and Mr and Mrs Freedom Stubbs with the child. Mr Stubbs is here as a contender for the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship. I am his wife.’

The clerk murmured and leafed’ through his book, and the large man with the cigar turned to Evelyne and beamed. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I couldn’t help overhearing, there’s more fighters comin’ in for that title. The whole of Europe’s after it so I wish you luck, and may I say your husband’s a fortunate man to have such a beautiful wife.’

Evelyne smiled her thanks, but she was shaking. Aware that the clerk could hear her, she told the fat stranger that her husband was the British Heavyweight Champion. ‘You may have heard of him, Freedom Stubbs, he’s a Romany gypsy, a prince.’

Even to her the statement sounded childish, and the big man laughed. From his back pocket he took a roll of banknotes larger than his fist, turned back to the receptionist and began peeling some off. They were fifty-dollar bills, and he was paying for his room upfront.

A doorman appeared outside and leaned on the window of the waiting cab. He told the cabbie to move on, go round the block — he could return in a few minutes but the forecourt had to be cleared. The cabbie started the engine and they did a slow crawl out of the forecourt. Coming in was a glittering Cadillac limousine, bright yellow and so highly polished that the lamps and wheels seemed to spark. The chauffeur rushed from his seat to the rear passenger door and two burly men in dark-grey suits and smart white shirts and ties hurried to the entrance. They stood like guards as the chauffeur stepped back, holding the car door open.

A square, stocky man stepped out of the limousine, wearing a pale lilac linen suit, a white fedora hat, and carrying white gloves and a silver-topped walking-stick. He didn’t acknowledge the two men standing on guard, but strode past them into the hotel.

Evelyne was still waiting patiently at the desk, as the clerk took forever to flip through the register, and as the brass-framed doors swung open and the lilac clad gentleman entered, the whole lobby went quiet. The two bodyguards walked immediately ahead of him, and two more appeared from behind the potted palms, hemming the squat man between them.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t seem to have nothin’ available right now …’

Evelyne had hoped so hard it would be all right that she was bitterly disappointed. She was unaware that a porter had been sent outside to check on the occupants of the waiting cab, had taken one look at Freedom and given the thumbs down.

She had not noticed the flurry of excitement behind her, she had been so intent on the receptionist. The man wearing the flashy lilac suit was heading for the lifts, the two thickset men making a path for him. There was actually no need, as everyone stepped back quickly as soon as they saw the group. Evelyne clenched her teeth, trying hard not to cry. She knew that by now Edward would be starving and fretful, but she thanked the clerk, and her initial show of confidence ebbed fast as she hurried towards the exit.

She was so eager to leave that she bumped into one of the two bodyguards. She barely touched the man, even apologized, but the next minute she was shoved roughly aside, with such force that she fell against a pillar. This was the final straw and she turned on the man, catching him by the sleeve. ‘There was no need to push me like that, it was an accident.’

She received no reply, but another shove. As she struck the pillar again, she dropped her handbag and all the contents spilled out on to the marble floor. As she scrabbled for her things, she missed seeing the boss give his protector a nasty crack on the shoulder with his walking stick. She only became aware of him when she saw, close to the handkerchief that had fallen from her bag, a pair of highly-polished, two-toned shoes. Her eyes travelled up the lilac pants to look into the dark eyes beneath the fedora hat.

‘You okay, ma’am? Want me to give you a hand … here, allow me.’

As he bent down, she could smell a heavy, sweet perfume. The perfectly manicured hand picked up Edward’s well-chewed dummy and held it out. Evelyne stood up. She was a head taller than the man, and his chubby face beamed up at her as he asked about her accent.

‘I’m from Britain, Wales.’

The fedora was lifted off, he made her a small, courtly bow. As he replaced his hat, he asked if she was a guest of the hotel. Evelyne bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears. He was so friendly, so charming … he took out a clean white handkerchief and handed it to her. She was deeply embarrassed, and try as she might to stop them, her eyes kept filling with tears. She wiped her face and told him the hotel was full, she could not get rooms. She was unaware that the lobby had come to a complete standstill as she talked to him.

The man swept over to the counter, and now Evelyne could see the impact he made on the porters and desk staff. Every move he made was shadowed by his attendants, and now they seemed more than cordial, bowing and scraping as if the man were royalty. She watched him talk quiedy to the clerk, then he gestured for her to join him at the desk.

‘They tell me your husband’s gonna be a contender — I tell you what, if you make sure I get a ringside seat, I’ll make sure you get the best rooms in this hotel, whaddya say, pretty lady? Is it a deal?’

Evelyne was speechless as the clerk laid two keys on the counter.

‘You got a kid with you? A boy, is it? I gotta boy, see, Sonny, I call him Sonny.’ A photograph was taken from his wallet and displayed with great pride, then replaced carefully so as not to crease it.

The clerk coughed nervously, and looked at his ledger. ‘Well, sir, there’s forty-eight and fifty-eight.’

‘How’s that suit ya, Mrs Stubbs? Two suites next to each other?’

Evelyne flushed and managed to say ‘thank you’ several times.

A nearby bellhop was poised on his toes in his eagerness to please. At a wave from the fat, manicured hand he was at Evelyne’s side.

‘Boy’ll help you carry your bags, ma’am, don’t you forget my tickets, just leave them at the desk …’

Evelyne almost curtsied with gratitude, and followed the bellhop out to the waiting taxi. Behind her she missed a strange, chilling scene.

The gentleman in the lilac suit leaned across the polished mahogany desk, swiftly grabbed the clerk by the lapel and pulled him halfway over the counter. ‘You treat a lady with discourtesy again and you’ll be found with your balls stuffed down your goddam throat, you pint-sized prick.’

The terrified clerk, released, gabbled an apology, and found himself lightly shoved against his letter-rack. ‘Make sure they get first-class treatment, flowers, fruit sent up, the whole bit, okay?’

‘Yes sir, Mr Capone, sir. Right away, sir.’

Capone stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in the frightened man’s pocket and moved off towards the bank of lifts. His bodyguard fell into step beside him, opened the lift doors and checked it over before Capone got in. As the last grey-suited man stepped inside, the folding gate was slammed on his hand. He gasped with pain, but made no other sound.

‘Check ‘em out. Who’s with the broad, get me the whole lowdown on ‘em.’

As the lift glided up to his private floor, Capone adjusted his silk cravat in his reflection in the polished brass control panel. He was in a good mood. He began to sing. His voice was strong, not quite Beniamino Gigli, but no one would dare say he wasn’t at least on a par.

Chapter 23

A week after Freedom’s arrival in Chicago there was still no fight arranged. Ed was beginning to think Sir Charles was out of his depth. He had to admit the influx of contenders for the heavyweight title didn’t make bouts all that easy to organize. Sir Charles assured Ed that he was trying.

‘I have to look after Freedom’s interests — not quite so cut and dried as we had anticipated. There are a lot of contenders, and Freedom’s nowhere near the top bracket. Thing I don’t want is that he has to plough his way through every boxer arriving in the States.’

Ed sighed. Running up hotel bills, trying to keep Freedom happy, was getting him down. Sir Charles poured Ed a brandy. ‘I have a meeting with two chaps who may be able to guide us. They made Dempsey — Jack Kearn and Tex Rickard.’

Ed’s jaw dropped, his eyes sparkled. Together, these two men had taken boxing into million-dollar gates, and promoted Dempsey into that league. Word was out that they were both millionaires. Rickard had been a cowboy, a small town marshal, a prospector and a honky-tonk proprietor, and the ballyhoo he created around the fights earned Rickard, Kearn and Dempsey the nickname of the ‘Golden Triangle’. Ed rubbed his hands excitedly. If they could get those two on their side, they would be made.

Ed bounded into the hotel room. The women were out shopping, and Freedom had been left to babysit. He snapped, unpleasantly, ‘Who am I going to fight? Sir Charles arranged a bout for me yet? You tell him if I have to travel for a fight, I need time to train, to prepare. You tell him this waitin’s driving me spare, mun?’

Ed pulled up a chair, took out a crumpled piece of paper and began to read out the awesome list of fighters pouring into Chicago from all over the world — Knud Hansen of Denmark, Tom Heeney from New Zealand, Paolino of Spain, Luis Angel Firpo from Argentina — not counting all the American fighters who wanted a crack at the title. That list was even longer.

Ed scratched his head. Their only hope was to get Dempsey on their side and Dempsey’s men in their corner. With such backing they could bypass more than twenty contenders because Sharkey or Schmeling had already beaten them. For Freedom to work his way through the list would be madness. Ed shoved the paper under Freedom’s nose. ‘Look at ‘em, count the names … But ‘is Lordship’s gonna get some help, see the three main contenders.’

Freedom interrupted, already over-eager, ready to take all three on. ‘Who are they?’

‘Johnny Risco is one, then there’s the European titleholder, Max Schmeling, and, last but not least, the one they say will take the title, Jack Sharkey.’

Freedom paced the room. ‘Can’t Sir Charles get me a bout with one of them?’

Ed shook his head, becoming impatient with Freedom’s impatience. ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ ter tell yer. All these other boxers, they want a bout, but it can’t be arranged. The top three have fought most of these geezers, can’t I get it through yer brain? It’s like a knockout competition, any of these names wot’s listed ‘ere gets through all the prelims — then, then, they can try for the big three.’

Freedom slumped into a chair. ‘So what do I do? Sit here?’

‘No, son, you get down to that gym an’ work out like you never done before, ‘cause you gotta be ready at all times. We get a chance of a good bout we grab it wiv both ‘ands, an’ we pray ter God a bit of the Golden Triangle gold rubs off on us.’

Freedom blinked. Ed could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He repeated, ‘Golden Triangle’, then looked at Ed. It was dawning on him exactly who Rikard and Kearn were.

‘Yeah, my idols. An’ Sir Charles is pullin’ strings ter get ‘em on our side, so do as I say an’ we’ll get yer a fight.’

A week went by without any news, and the hotel bills were mounting. Freedom was becoming restless, he had nothing but aggravation at the gym, where they referred to him as ‘the black’, and he had almost got into a street brawl. A car passed him and Evelyne as they strolled arm-in-arm, and the occupants had shouted ‘white trash’ at her. He had chased the car in hapless fury.

He felt caged in the hotel, and Ed worried himself sick. He recognized the signs and knew that Freedom needed a bout soon. He also needed a change of scenery.

At long last there was progress. Sir Charles received a cable from Tex Rickard, cordially inviting them to visit him at his villa in Miami. Freda, Evelyne, and Edward, along with all their luggage and a very disgruntled, moody Freedom, left Chicago to take up residence in a small, rented villa in Miami. The villa was right on the ocean front, and Freedom began to relax a little. Sir Charles had instructed Ed to stand by, hire a car and wait. Ed was on tenterhooks, practising driving the car up and down the drive. He almost ran his future champion down as he came out of the villa swinging his towel at the motor. ‘How long, Ed? How long does he want us to wait here?’

Ed pulled on the handbrake. ‘That was a bloody silly thing to do. I could ‘ave run yer over.’

Freedom glowered. ‘You tell me how long mun? eh?’

Ed went red in the face, shouting back, ‘I dunno, do I? Why don’t you get on the beach, run, spend yer time gettin’ fit; just fer God’s sake stop asking me when-when when-when. It’ll be when Sir Charles says, that’s all I ruddy know.’

Freedom took off down the beach and Ed hit the steering wheel, shouting at himself now. ‘When you bastard, when? … when?’

Ed rushed into the villa bellowing for Freedom at the top of his voice. Freda was inspecting the fridge with delight, having never seen one before. ‘They’re on the beach, Ed … Ed, just look at this, it makes cubes of ice for the drinks.’

Ed was already rushing out on the beach waving his arms in the air. Evelyne and Edward were at the water’s edge, laughing at the little waves. Freedom was doing pressups.

‘Freedom … come on, we got to go an’ meet ‘em all now … Now, come on, lad … Here, wrap this round yer neck, don’t go gettin’ cold.’

Freedom took the towel and nicked it at Ed. ‘That’ll take some doin’, mun, it’s blazing hot.’ He went off at a fast run towards the villa, Ed following on his stubby little legs as quickly as he could. -

By the time Ed collapsed on the stairs, Freedom was already taking a shower. He could hear Freedom whistling, taking his time. Ed puffed his way up the stairs and paced up and down outside the bathroom until Freedom came out, stark naked. He was deeply tanned, the outline of his shorts showing lighter. Ed hovered at the bedroom door while Freedom dressed. It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful his lad was, like a statue, every muscle clearly defined.

‘What yer doin’ now? We can’t keep these fellas waitin’. Gawd almighty, you do nothin’ but moan about wantin’ a fight, now when we got to go an’ talk about it, what you doin’?’ ‘

Freedom beamed at him as he pulled on a shirt. Ed heard Freda below mixing drinks in a newfangled machine. ‘Gawd love us, git yer pants on … Freda? Don’t you go cookin’ nothin’, we’re on our way out, at least, we will be when this bloody lad gets his gear on. Now, come on …’

At long last they were on their way.

Ed parked the rented car outside the ranch-style house, and he and Freedom were led on to a shaded patio by Kearn himself. There, already seated with Sir Charles and waiting to meet them, was the second point of the Golden Triangle, Tex Rickard. He rose to his feet and they were introduced. He was wearing a cowboy hat, tooled leather boots and a large silver and turquoise buckle on his belt. He was a big, expansive man, and a man who got immediately on to familiar terms. Ed loved him. Sir Charles was looking cool and suave in a white linen suit.

The men were drinking beer and their cigar smoke drifted up into the clear, bright sky. Ed and Tex Rickard were talking nineteen to the dozen, as they had been all afternoon, of boxers, of fights. Rickard gave a blow-by-blow account of the Tunney-Dempsey fight, the bout known as the ‘fight of the long count’. The new rule was that when a boxer was knocked down, his opponent had to go straight to a neutral corner. Only then could the count begin. If he didn’t move, the referee would not start the count.

‘Ed, ma boy, that count must have been well over sixteen, I was out of ma goddam mind! I screamed for Jack to get into the corner — he’d forgotten, see, in the heat of the moment. Jeez, I’m tellin’ ya, I wanted to get in the goddam ring myself … so of course, Tunney got a second wind, who wouldn’t after sixteen seconds?’

Ed turned to Freedom and jerked his thumb towards Rickard, telling him to pay close attention to what the man, the man, was saying. Freedom leaned forward and listened as the two men began to discuss the last Tunney fight, then relaxed again. He had seen the film, knew the fight punch by punch. Freedom was beside himself. There was Ed with Rickard, apparently going over every detail of every fight that had ever taken place in the USA, and on his other side Sir Charles and Kearn talking non-stop about aeroplanes.

The real reason they had all gathered at Kearn’s was to discuss a bout for Freedom, to make him a contender for the championship, but so far no one had said a word about it. In fact, they never brought the subject up at all.

Freedom was moody, his temper fraying. With a terrible grinding of gears they stopped at the villa, and as they climbed out of the car, Freedom began to question Ed. ‘So when do I fight, Ed, what went on? They going to help me get a bout or not?’

Ed puffed on a Cuban cigar, a gift from his new friend, Tex, and waved his hand majestically. ‘These things take time, son, got to be worked out, an’ Sir Charles is going ter have ter give them a percentage of the gate, see, so we don’t want ter rush fings. They want ter see you work out tomorrow at a friend’s place … Anyway, did I tell you what Tex told me about when he was gambling in Paris, France?’

‘I don’t give a bugger about his gambling, I want a fight and I want it soon, Ed.’

That night, Freedom felt Evelyne’s belly, and they both agreed it was going to be another boy. They discussed names, and Evelyne decided she would like to call him Alexander. Freedom muttered that it was a name for a woman, and she threw a pillow at him. He would have let her call the baby Freda if she’d wanted to.

The sun had tanned Evelyne’s pale skin and lightened her long red hair. He had never seen her so beautiful. The good life suited her, and he was determined it wouldn’t stop — not now, not ever.

He slipped from the bed and lifted the blind. The night was dark and the sea was lit by a perfect, brilliant moon. He clenched his hands, his frustration was building to-bursting point. He couldn’t sleep at night, and he spent all day waiting, always waiting.

At breakfast the following morning, Freedom had already been up for hours, running himself into exhaustion. He ate in silence, and the atmosphere grew tense. Ed was eating the most enormous platter of sausage and pancakes, and his paunch was growing as fast as Evelyne’s pregnancy.

‘Be patient, fings is goin’ just right.’

That was it. Freedom banged his fist on the table. ‘Sittin’ around eatin’, mun, you call that going just right? I came here to fight, so far I done nothin’ … maybe it’s not just Sir Charles out of his depth, mun, maybe you don’t know what you’re doin’ … Get me a fight, that’s all I want.’

As if on cue, a Western union boy rang their bell and handed over a telegram. Rickard had requested another meeting.

Ed and Freedom departed with the usual crashing of gears, Ed refusing to speak to Freedom until he apologized. Evelyne sighed, Freedom’s moods were getting to them all, apart from Freda, who spent most of her time with her nose in the fridge eating all the goodies she had discovered on their trips into town.

‘I’ll take Edward down to the beach.’

‘Freda, what if he loses? If he gets a bout and loses, we are all here, living in luxury — who’s paying for it?’

Freda sat down at the table with her raspberry ripple ice-cream. ‘Don’t talk that way. Of course he will win, don’t ever speak like that.’

But Evelyne couldn’t rid herself of her foreboding. She knew Freedom was getting dangerously impatient. Freda waved her spoon at Evelyne. ‘Maybe today they’ll know about a fight, and you must not let Freedom see you are worried, promise me … have some raspberry ripple.’

Evelyne shook her head, collected the bucket and spade and, with Edward pulling excitedly at her hand, went down to the beach.

Ed drove through the gates of the luxurious ranch-style villa. This time Freedom hardly gave a second glance, already bored by Ed’s non-stop description of all the Dempsey fights. Only when a servant led them into a gymnasium did he perk up. Everything was geared to boxing — a ring built in the centre of the vast, sprung floor. The servant showed them the dressing room, gesturing to Freedom to help himself, and then bowed out, leaving him to stare at the rows of gloves, robes and boots.

‘Go on, get a work out, I’ll take a stroll round the stables. I got a surprise for you, you wait. Go on, get dressed.’

Freedom was hammering hell out of a punchbag when the gym doors swung open. A tall, elegant man in a pale cream linen suit, his black hair slicked back, leaned on the doorframe. A large diamond ring glittered on his little finger.

‘Carry on, son, let’s have a look at you. Go on, hit that bag.’

Puzzled, Freedom blinked. Ed appeared behind the man and stared in adoration, near tears. As the man moved into the centre of the room, Freedom looked at him again and realized who he was. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and shirt with a silk tie, and a handkerchief placed just so in his breast pocket, but no amount of fancy tailoring could hide his muscular body. This was none other than Dempsey himself.

Dempsey’s polished shoes made no sound on the pine floor. ‘How ya doin’, Freedom, glad to meet you.’

The hand was like a rock … so this was the ‘Manassa Mauler’, the iron man. Ed clutched Dempsey’s hand, and for one awful moment it looked as if he were going to kiss it. Dempsey began to peel off his jacket, his perfect white teeth gleaming. ‘Let’s go to it, son, I need a work out.’

It took quite a lot of persuasion for Dempsey to get Freedom into the sauna, as Freedom had never been in one and didn’t like it at all.

‘Sweats out all the impurities, all the rage over here, they’ll get to England in about twenty years. America’s the place, this is the land, here, I love this goddam country.’

He poured pine essence on to the bed of hot coals and sat on one of the benches. His body was flabby, but still in better shape than most men of his age. He thumped his belly and roared his deep, bellowing laugh.

‘This is the good life, I earned it, I earned it and now I’m living, really living … hey, you married?’

They both wore short white towels wrapped around their hips, and Dempsey seemed very proud of his ‘manhood’. He snorted when Freedom told him he was married, and said marriage was the worst contract he had ever got himself into.

‘An’ that toff with the enlarged eyeball, your — what?’

Freedom smiled at his reference to Sir Charles, and said that he was his so-called promoter.

‘They’ll have him for dinner, you stayin’ ta eat? Good, I’ll make us a barbecue, one you won’t forget, an’ we’ll have something wet to go with it.’

He was referring to the prohibition order, and when they were dressed they made their way to the patio for the barbecue, passing a very well-stocked bar. Prohibition hadn’t, it appeared, affected the ex-world champion.

Ed was grinning like the Cheshire cat, his tete-a-tete with Tex Rickard had obviously lasted all afternoon. Dempsey made no reference to Freedom’s fights, but they had worked out hard together in the afternoon and Freedom had been aware of the close scrutiny he had been under.

Dempsey heated the coals on the open grill, and some Mexican servants brought chops, steaks and sausages, already prepared for cooking.

‘You ever eaten an American hamburger, Freedom? Hey, what kind of a hell of a name is that, Freedom?’

Tex poured drinks and said that it was a name that would look good in lights, on posters, and then Freedom knew that something must have been settled.

The whisky hit the back of the throat like a fireball, and Ed whisded. Dempsey grinned and said it was the best around these parts, he had the best contacts. The men lit cigars and watched as the food went on to the open grill, while Dempsey, in his shirtsleeves and with his cigar stuck in his mouth, wielded the fork like a fencer, jabbing and inspecting the meat. A table was set on the patio, and soon they were joined by Sir Charles and Jack Kearn. They were greeted with a bellow from Dempsey, who wanted to know where the hell they had been. Kearn poured himself a generous measure of whisky and, gesturing to Sir Charles, said that he was going to make a first-class pilot.

Suddenly there was a silence, the sort of silence they say means an angel is passing over, and Freedom knew instantly that something had definitely been decided. Rickard looked at him. ‘Right, son, if all goes to plan — as you know, there are the big three, Risco, Schmeling and Sharkey. Right now you can’t get a bout with any one of ‘em, but we want you to start ploughing your way through a few smaller bouts — get some good publicity, get your name known. Then, if all goes well … it’s Risco first, then the German, then the main contender, Sharkey. We’ve seen all their managers and it will be up to you to show us your worth … We want the Sharkey fight in Miami, that way Jack don’t have to travel too far.’ They roared with laughter, and more drinks were served. Freedom was beside himself. If they’d asked him to fight anyone then and there he would have been up on his feet.

Freedom was never to discover exactly what the financial arrangements were, he left that to Sir Charles. They were very relaxed, the conversation centred entirely on boxing, and Freedom ate like a horse while Dempsey held the floor. He was a great raconteur and made everyone roar with laughter at the stories of his days on the ‘tank town’ circuits. The subject of the forthcoming bout did not arise again and Freedom had no idea when it was to take place, but he was sure Ed would tell him everything on the journey home. In the meantime he enjoyed himself for what seemed the first time in months.

The following morning, Freedom and Ed received a visit from Sir Charles. He drove up to their villa in a car almost as long as the villa itself. The three men went into the front room and closed the door.

Ed was surprised to see Sir Charles was as hung over as himself and Freedom. His face was a greenish colour and he accepted black coffee gratefully. ‘Right, now then, it’s not quite as easy as those fellas made it out to be. They want you accepted as a real contender, so I have drawn up the eliminator bouts. If you come through, as I am sure you will, then they’ll come in with their promotion for the last three — Risco first.’

Ed was sweating. He mopped his brow. ‘Who does he take on first, sir, and where?’

Sir Charles paused a moment, then coughed. ‘It’s the Dane, Knud Hansen.’

Ed was tense, gripping his cup and saucer to stop them rattling. ‘Next, who’s after the Dane?’

‘Monty Munn … first fight takes place in Cleveland, at die St Nicholas ring.’

‘Where’s Cleveland, local is it?’

‘No, Ed, it’s in Ohio, so get packing and be prepared to leave first thing in the morning.’

Freedom was beaming from ear to ear as Ed showed Sir Charles out.

‘I don’t know what you’re so bleedin’ ‘appy about, you seen the size of this ruddy Dane? He’s over six feet four, a fuckin’ Viking.’

Freedom laughed and stood up, raising his arms. ‘So am I, so what?’

‘His bleedin’ Lordship didn’t mention yer might ‘ave ter take on the friggin’ French feller. Just two fights. Well, don’t fink they’re easy, you’re up against it, and wiwout much time in between bouts if yer do win …’

Freedom rumpled Ed’s thin, frazzled hair. ‘That’s what I like about you, mun, give me confidence, encouragement…’

Ed grinned and punched Freedom good-naturedly on the arm. ‘You’ll take ‘em easy, lad, just don’t want yer finkin’ yer don’t ‘ave ter train.’

Freedom went into the kitchen to give Evelyne and Freda the news. Left alone, Ed’s good humour dropped like a stone, and he muttered to himself, ‘Christ almighty, ‘e’s got ‘is ‘ands full.’

The following morning they were packed and ready. Ed wouldn’t even hear of Freda or Evelyne accompanying them. ‘You’ll both be there for the championship fight, but in the meantime me an’ my lad’s got our work cut out. We don’t want you two slowin’ us down.’

Evelyne was relieved. The thought of travelling all over America with little Edward, and pregnant at the same time, was daunting. Freedom was happy, confident, and couldn’t wait to get started. But when they had gone the villa felt empty without them, peaceful.

Freda carried two milk shakes on to the patio. ‘Banana, try it — have you ever had a banana?’

Evelyne shook her head and sipped the milky yellow drink, then smiled approval. Edward clambered on to her knee and grabbed the drink with both hands while Evelyne struggled to prevent him spilling it all over the table. At the same time she asked Freda what she thought about the forthcoming fights.

‘Oh, darlink, first it’s just a little one, with Knoot somebody, then a few more to get the Americans familiar with Freedom’s name. You don’t worry, Ed’s not worried, and he knows … look, Edward — see, this is a straw, and you suck up your drink like so …’

She demonstrated sucking through the straw. Edward couldn’t quite get the hang of it and blew instead. Freda turned to Evelyne with banana milk shake dripping down her face. She laughed, saying it was for her sunburn.

Ed and Freedom travelled to Ohio by train, while Sir Charles flew there in a private plane owned by Jack Kearn. He was even allowed to take over the controls, and began to think about acquiring one himself.

The gate for Freedom’s fight with Knud Hansen was only fair, about four hundred people. Ed was confident Freedom could take the Dane with ease; the man punched wildly, and used an open-armed swing. He was enormous, weighing in eight pounds heavier than Freedom.

The crowd cheered them both, and as the gong went for round one their cheers turned to loud boos. Freedom was moving around, trying to assess his man, and had hardly thrown a single punch when he caught a wild right and was knocked ‘clean out, to the fury of the crowd.

This was Freedom’s first defeat, and he was totally demoralized and dejected, stunned at his own stupidity. However, with Ed always close by and confident that it was a fluke, they arranged a second bout fast. Although the press had been there, the fight hardly caused a ripple in the papers as they were all carrying banner headlines about a brutal killing, a blood bath that had taken place in Chicago.

The headlines ran, ‘St Valentine’s Day Massacre’. Only a small article, a single paragraph in the sporting section, reported the English contender, Britain’s only hope for the Heavyweight Championship, had lost. ‘Stubbs KO’d Round One by the Great Dane.’

Evelyne’s heart stopped when the rotund figure of Freda charged down the beach, kicking up sand behind her. Evelyne jumped to her feet, panic-stricken. ‘What is it? Freedom? Is he all right?’

‘Ohhhh, oh, oh … it was on the radio, you won’t believe it, but … they were murdered, all of them gunned down.’

Freda saw the horror in Evelyne’s face and quickly gasped out the Al Capone story. Evelyne flopped back on the hot sand. ‘Freda … oh, Freda, I thought something terrible had happened.’ She sat up suddenly, stared at Freda. ‘Al Capone? No, are you sure? It couldn’t be right, he was so nice! He wouldn’t do anything so terrible as shooting people, you must have misheard it, Al Capone?’

Freda was adamant. It had been on the radio, so it had to be true. Evelyne let a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. ‘Was there anything about the fight?’

Freda shook her head, then screamed as Edward brought his spade crashing down on her head. Evelyne jumped up and grabbed him, taking the spade from his chubby fist. ‘That was naughty, you apologize this instant to Auntie Freda! Edward, I mean it, say you’re sorry … Edward!’

Edward pursed his lips and glowered.

‘Right back to the house you go, my lad, and no more sandcastles today.’

Edward screamed and kicked at the sand in fury, his eyes black with anger. Evelyne chased him in circles on the beach until she eventually caught hold of him and dragged him back to face Freda. He wriggled free, then hurled himself into Freda’s arms. He kissed her cheek, holding her face in his small hands. ‘Kiss it better, kiss you better.’

Freda wrapped him in her arms, laughing. ‘Oh, Eddie, you have lady-killer eyes, you have … It’s all right, Auntie Freda forgives you, and I’m sure Mama will let you build another castle … Evie?’

Edward turned big, dark, innocent eyes on Evelyne and she gave a brief nod, then sat down next to Freda. They both watched him digging frantically, then he turned and gave them a wicked grin. Evelyne sighed. ‘You spoil him, you know, he gets away with too much — and don’t call him Eddie, I don’t like it, his name’s Edward.’

‘Okie-dokie, whatever you say, darlink. He had such a look of Freedom, the image of his father — the eyes, oh, what eyes.’

‘Well he won’t take after him, that’s for sure, I’ll not have him fighting, he’ll not be a fighter.’

Evelyne was staring; stony-faced, out to sea. She was so beautiful, her long red hair blowing in the breeze. Freda thought to herself, ‘With a mother and father so handsome, the world could be little Edward’s oyster.’

Ed had his hands full trying to keep Freedom’s spirit up, as well as frantically trying to arrange a bout he could go on to immediately. Then they had a stroke of luck — the massive Dane was knocked out by the French contender, Pierre Charles. This left the contender Monty Munn available, so the fight was arranged.

Freedom received a call from Dempsey, who gave him a talking-to. ‘Listen to me, Stubbs, I been KO’d more times than I been balled. Pick yaself up, show us what you got, ya hear me? Go, boy go!’

Ed also kept up a steady, encouraging patter, assuring Freedom that if he won the Monty Munn fight he would take on the number three man, none other than Johnny Risco. ‘They call him Rubber-legs. The man goes down and bounces back. Well, you get Monty down an’ you’ll bounce that Risco fella right outta the ring.’

Freedom went ten rounds with Munn, a tough fight, then got his famous punch in. Monty went down. Freedom’s confidence was restored, and Kearn and Rickard were now convinced of his potential beyond doubt. They began to play a minor part in promoting Freedom, but they were still holding back. In a private meeting with Sir Charles they told him they both felt it was too early for Freedom to take on Risco, he was not ready. They also had an eye on the gates, wanting to build Freedom’s name up.

The fight with Pierre Charles went ahead. This time Freedom had to go the full twenty rounds, and he won on points. Press reports began to feature Freedom Stubbs as a powerful contender for the title. The gates were also improving — money was coming in — and although deals had been set up between Sir Charles and the Golden Triangle, there was still a lot left in the purse for Freedom. But once again his hopes of getting closer to the championship were thwarted and another bout was arranged, this time in Chicago.

As always, Sir Charles kept his accounts with meticulous care, and all Freedom’s expenses were deducted. The boat fares, the hotel, the train, the plane rides, nothing was left out. Then there were Ed’s wages, taxes, the rent for the Miami villa, every dollar and cent was accounted for. Sir Charles, whose constant battles with the trustees of his estate made him only too aware of his cash flow, was miserly in many ways, but he astounded everyone by handing out huge tips. He would give with one hand and take with the other. Ed put it down to eccentricity, but Dempsey laughed, he put it down to his Lordship being ‘just a goddam tightass’.

Whatever the outcome of the finances, Ed made sure Freedom’s share was looked after, and to date they were, in his own word, ‘flush’. Ed was holding more than five thousand dollars for Freedom, in large bills in a money-belt round his rotund stomach. Freedom never questioned Ed about finances. In truth, he didn’t care. Being knocked out had marked him, and he was back in training with a vengeance. He never wanted to experience that humiliation again.

Ed had forgotten their, problems in Chicago. In New York Freedom was accepted as a gypsy, but in Chicago they were again refused admission to any of the best hotels. Freedom grew moodier than ever, and twice Ed had to hold him back from physically assaulting hotel clerks.

Most blacks in Chicago resided in the area known as the South Side, ranging from 30th to 39th Street, and there was a famous hotel, the Du Sable, on the corner of 39th and Cottage Grove Avenue. The Du was one of the most popular hotels for the black elite, where great jazz musicians rubbed elbows with black politicians, judges and lawyers. Duke Ellington and Count Basie often stayed there when playing theatres in downtown Chicago. The incongruous situation of being able to play there but not live there was a sore point. To Ed’s shame, Freedom moved into the Du while he himself stayed at the Lexington with Sir Charles. Freedom had joked about it, saying he didn’t give a damn what they wanted to think he was. Black or white, he was there to fight.

And he got a fight, not in the ring but outside a speakeasy. It started with Freedom and two black boxers he had met at the Du being barred from entering the speakeasy. The three boxers started slugging it out with the bouncers on the door, and the police were called. They were on a tough training schedule and Ed had assumed Freedom was resting, when he was summoned to the local police station. Along with his ‘brothers’, Freedom was put behind bars for the night. Sir Charles paid a heavy fine and made a large ‘donation’ to police funds to get Freedom released. Afraid of the bad press this situation was bound to cause, the venue was switched, and a hasty retreat to New York organized. In the end this proved beneficial because their luck was in. A contender removed from the running left an opening for Freedom in a fight scheduled to take place in Madison Square.

Freedom’s arrest seemed at first to have no effect on him, but Ed detected a difference. He had often said that Freedom lacked the ‘killer instinct’ — now he saw an anger in Freedom that unleashed itself, but not necessarily in the ring. Ed warned him to keep his temper, at all cost they must avoid bad publicity. The old, familiar mask came down and he received that blank, hooded stare. Ed was told quietly but firmly that it was up to him to make sure that Freedom was never subjected to the insults his ‘brothers’ received.

Ed made a point of telling Sir Charles it was imperative to make the public aware of Freedom’s Romany origins. If he were to be barred from any more hotels, there would be trouble and Ed doubted if he could control it.

From then on, Freedom made a point of mixing with black boxers in the gymnasiums and socializing with them in the bars and nightclubs. He felt an empathy with their segregation, and they in turn accepted him as one of them. They encouraged him and waited in line to act as sparring partners, and many of them should, by rights, have been put forward as contenders.

Ed sat in Freedom’s sparse room in the run-down hotel. Freedom had pulled the mattress from his bed and laid it on the floor to sleep. He was stretched out on it now, his head resting on a grubby pillow. Ed knew he was exhausted, but all the attention he had been getting pumped him full of adrenalin.

Freedom felt Ed’s eyes on him and turned with a smile. ‘You got a big paunch on you, Ed. Want to run round the clubs with me, do the Black Bottom. That’ll slim you down.’,

‘No I don’t, and you shouldn’t be out gallivantin’ wiv all sorts. I’m not a stickler, I know you gotta let off a bit of steam now an’ then, but keep it to a minimum. This isn’t all belly, neither — this is our cash, son. I don’t let it out of me sight fer a minute.’

Freedom laughed and told Ed he should take care on his way back to that posh hotel, joking that Ed might be robbed by some of his ‘black brothers’.

‘Never mind me, it’s you I’m bothered about, you need to rest up.’

Freedom stretched his arms above his head and sighed. ‘How many more times do they want me to show how good I am? I want Risco — I done my part, I’ve proved myself, I want Risco. So you get that fat body round to his Lordship and tell him I’m through waiting.’

‘I hear you, lad, but you remember I’m the trainer, don’t get too big fer yer boots or you’ll be leavin’ ‘em on the canvas … An’ stay in ternight, all right? No bloody Black Bottomin’.’

Ed clutched his belly all the way back to the hotel. He decided that perhaps it would be better if the winnings were put in the hotel safe. He counted all the dollar bills and stacked them in a neat pile. As always, Sir Charles had made Ed sign for the money when it was given to him. Ed now decided to ask him to arrange for its safekeeping.

That evening, Sir Charles watched as the money was put into the hotel safe. He suggested to Ed that he open a bank account, but Ed wouldn’t hear of it. He had never had much to do with banks, he didn’t even have an account back in England, having rarely had more than a pocketful of loose change to his name. Besides, most of the money belonged to Freedom. Another reason, which Ed did not mention to Sir Charles, was that Freedom was still barely able to write more than his own name. To give him a chequebook would only confuse the issue, and knowing his spendthrift ways it was better all round for the money to be kept out of generous hands.

Ed cabled Freda and Evelyne that all was well — more than well, they were inching closer and closer to the title. He did not mention that Freedom was becoming hard to handle. He wanted to get Freedom out of New York. Even though he still worked out in the gyms, he was hitting the booze, and many a morning he was too hung over to train. At last Ed got a call to meet with the Golden Triangle. It seemed they had some good news for him.

The fight with Johnny ‘Rubber-legs’ Risco was on. Ed wanted Freedom to rest for at least a month, but Dempsey laughed at him, saying that in the days when he was in the booths he fought three or four fights a week, and he knew Freedom was raring to go. Against his better judgement, Ed agreed. The publicity campaign for the Risco-Stubbs fight was under way.

Freedom was working out when Ed told him the Risco fight was going ahead. He belted hell out of the punchbag, then clasped Ed joyfully to his sweating body. Ed did not mention the hours he had spent arguing with Sir Charles that it was too soon, that Freedom needed more rest.

Sir Charles had organized Freedom’s match with Risco only three weeks after his win on points at Madison Square, but Ed gave Freedom no hint of his misgivings. Right now, Freedom was confident, even over-confident. ‘This is it, I get through with Risco, there’s just Sharkey and the German to go, that title’s getting closer.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just remember Sharkey’s still number two contender. He’s already wiped out Risco, so he’ll be watching you like a hawk.’

Freedom went back to the punchbag with renewed energy. Ed sized him up. He reckoned Freedom could take Risco, but Sharkey would be another matter. Sharkey was lighter than Freedom, but he was said to be unstoppable. He would fight the winner of the Stubbs-Risco bout and, if Freedom won, he would be a very tired boxer.

Sharkey’s only obstacle to the vacant throne was the big German, Max Schmeling. He was Germany’s international champion and a formidable contender. Schmeling was already at the top in the betting. He and Sharkey had noted the meteoric rise of the gypsy fighter and, as Ed suspected, both men calculated that Freedom would be a very tired man. They booked ringside seats for the bout, which was to take place in Chicago and was already a sell-out. Rumours began to circulate; the Golden Triangle had an interest in the gypsy — tired he might be, but he was beginning to draw crowds. Freedom, at first a rank outsider, now featured in the last lap for the vacant throne. The running was still Schmeling first, Sharkey second, Risco third. Having done extremely well, Freedom was now placed fourth.

Freda and Evelyne felt cut off, waiting for the results. Both understood the importance of Freedom’s fight against Johnny ‘Rubber-legs’ Risco. Evelyne would stand at the gate of the villa for hours on end hoping the Western Union boy would bring her a message. She couldn’t sleep for worry.

Freda, who usually tried to keep Evelyne calm, almost induced a miscarriage by screaming at the top of her voice. ‘He’s here? He’s coming! Evie, Evie, he’s got a, telegram!’

Evelyne’s hands were shaking as she tore open the envelope. She read it, then closed her eyes. ‘He’s won, Freda, he’s won!’

It had taken sixteen rounds for Freedom to get Risco down on the canvas. Down and unable to bounce back. Freedom was tired but jubilant, and Ed was beside himself. The throne was closer — his boy was now placed third.

Sharkey and Schmeling were impressed, but Sharkey was still more than confident. If the gyppo was tired before the Risco fight, now he would be exhausted. He put pressure on his promoters to push his fight with Freedom forward.

Dempsey and his partners celebrated when they received the news. Rickard increased the publicity with Sir Charles right alongside him and not afraid, as Dempsey joked, ‘to get his hand outta his pocket’. Having been unsure to begin with, they now all believed there was a chance. They brought out the ‘big guns’ and set about designing posters. Their boy, they were sure, had the ‘Golden Glove’.

Chapter 24

ED was unusually quiet on the flight back to Miami. Freedom sat next to him, wearing dark glasses, his head resting on the back of his seat. He was exhausted.

Poor Ed had lost even more hair during their travels, forever worrying, and now he believed he had a gastric ulcer. Out of the corner of his eye, Freedom watched him take out a cigar, roll it in his fingers, put it back in his pocket and then take it out again. Fidget, fidget … Freedom laid his hand on Ed’s arm and quietly asked him the important question, ‘How long have I got, Ed?’

Ed stared out of the window, his stomach churning. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fight that caused it, or the realization that they had barely a month to prepare. Freedom hesitated only a moment when told. ‘Well, I said I wanted to fight, looks like Kearn and Rickard are coming up trumps.’

Ed was too much the professional to get excited. He knew it was too soon. Freedom needed more time to rest. ‘I think those two think they’re goin’ ter make another Golden Triangle with you at the apex instead of Dempsey. They’ll be behind this razzmatazz. You think you’ll be fit enough, lad?’

Freedom laughed, punched Ed’s shoulder and said he was ready. ‘Sir Charles’d step in if I wasn’t, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t let me fight if I wasn’t up to it, don’t worry, Ed.’

‘Sir Charles, lad, blows with the wind, that’s all I know. Right now he’s all over those two big Americans, talking of buying his own plane, God help us if he wants to take the controls.’

They strapped themselves into their seat belts as the pilot shouted that they were about to land. Ed’s face turned green. ‘Gawd, this is the bit I hate. S’all right getting up, an’ while yer up there, but comin’ down’s horrible.’

‘Yeah, it’s like fighting, Ed, no fun when you’re down.’

They landed safely and Ed fussed about their bags, worried they would lose the precious sets of gloves. Freedom shouted, ‘Ed! Ed, look, will you look at that, well I’ll be goddamned if that ain’t a sonofa-bitch!’

He was pointing to a huge billboard God only knew how many feet high, ‘stubbs versus sharkey.’ ‘Jeez, ain’t that a goddam thing?’ He had already picked up a lot of American slang and everything was ‘Jeez, Ed’ this and ‘Jeez, Ed’ that. Ed muttered that he’d got it wrong, it wasn’t ‘Jeez’ but ‘gee’, like in ‘gee whizz’. Freedom continued to get it wrong, and in the end Ed also found himself saying, ‘Jeez, will you look at that goddam billboard, you could be a movie star.’

Tex played on Freedom’s uncanny likeness to the film star Rudolph Valentino to the hilt. He also made much of Freedom’s long hair and gypsy blood. On many of the boards, in huge red letters, were the words, ‘The Gypsy King’; another favourite was ‘The Wild Man’. All of them, like circus posters, were in brilliant colours, showing Freedom with his gloved hands held up, his hair flying out behind him.

The hired limousine was piled to the roof with gifts, many of them toys for Edward. Ed had tried hard, but in the end he had given way and let Freedom have some of his winnings, more than he would dare tell Evelyne. Freedom had gone on one of his wild spending sprees — suits, hats, coats, dresses, jewels, and, of course, a rocking horse, a drum and miniature boxing gloves for his son. For once, Ed had also been spending money like water and was loaded down with gifts for Freda. Also, both of them had bought the.lightweight, light-coloured suits that were all the rage.

The elegance and superb tailoring of the clothes Sir Charles had had made for him were rejected for the flashy style favoured by their idol, Dempsey. They both sported loud floral silk ties with matching handkerchiefs and dark glasses.

Sir Charles’ new-found friend, Jack Kearn, had taken him to an airstrip, where they inspected a second-hand light plane. Kearn was amazed to hear the usually thrifty Englishman giving instructions for the plane to be elaborately fitted out in red leather. He also wanted certain improvements on the control panel. Kearn paled when he heard how much it would cost, but Sir Charles was ecstatic, and they departed in high spirits. Kearn puzzled over the Englishman’s eccentric behaviour, one moment fussing over five or ten dollars and the next spending thirty thousand as if it were no more than a couple of bucks.

All day Evelyne and Freda had waited, running to the gate every few minutes, eager to see their men. The car eventually drew up outside at five in the afternoon, and Ed and Freedom hopped out with all their bags and boxes of gifts.

The reunion was feverish, everyone talking at once, unwrapping their presents with shrieks of delight, and Freedom throwing his son up in the air and catching him.

Evelyne sensed that Freedom was slightly evasive, kissing her lightly without removing his dark glasses. She felt uneasy with him, knew there was something wrong.

When Freda and Ed went for a walk on the beach, Evelyne said, ‘I think the boxing gloves are a bit big, we’ll put them away until he gets bigger.’ She was reluctant to tell Freedom that she didn’t want Edward to be encouraged to fight.

‘I see you’re bigger now, how you been, all right?’ Freedom asked.

She felt a distance between them. She was aware of how fat she had become with the baby, and felt unattractive, even ugly. She always forgot how tall he was, how handsome. His presence filled the room and made her self-conscious. She picked up all her gifts and thanked him.

‘You see all the posters of me, then, love?’. Evelyne hadn’t; as neither she nor Freda could drive they had hardly left the villa. She studied Freedom. The pale linen suit, she thought, was not too bad, but the silk tie with the painted flowers was utterly tasteless. ‘You look very fancy.’

She could have bitten off her tongue as he looked into the mirror with a hurt expression and examined his tie.

‘Not to your liking? Well, you can use it as a bandanna.’

She wished he would take the glasses off, not seeing his face unnerved her. She reached out to take them off, but he backed abruptly away from her. She withdrew her hand, her feelings hurt, but as he slowly removed them himself she understood why.

Both his eyes were bruised and swollen, and beneath his left eye was a gash with fresh stitches. The bridge of his nose was swollen and his cheek was puffy. The sight of him made her feel faint, and she steadied herself on the edge of the table. She knew she mustn’t let him see the effect his injuries had on her, and she forced a smile. ‘I’d better see if we’ve got some steak in the icebox, that’s what they use, isn’t it? Now, come here and let me have a good look at you.’

She could feel the relief in him, feel him relax, and as she took his face gently between her hands she couldn’t stop the tears coming into her eyes. She kissed his bruised, hurt face softly.

Freedom gathered her into his arms and returned her kisses, murmuring that his face was fine, and he was just desperate for her. He laid her down on the bed and loosened his flowered tie. She unbuttoned her blouse, and he could see her breasts, swollen but still beautiful. He pulled his shirt open to reveal heavily strapped ribs. His body, like his face, was marked with deep, dark bruises. He sat close to her and helped her off with her blouse, and she kissed his chest, touched the tape.

‘It’s nothing, just to keep me standing straight.’

He oiled Evelyne’s belly and asked if it was all right for him to make love to her. She smiled up at him, loving him for his consideration, and held him tightly. She felt him flinch slighdy as she touched his bruised ribs.

He treated her so gently that it was she who urged him on. Again and again he took her until they lay back, sweating and exhausted. Leaning on his elbow he touched her face, brushed a strand of her wonderful long hair aside and kissed her neck, his voice husky and shy. ‘There’s never been a woman like you, manushi, you take me to a place so high up I’m flying. No woman but you can ever take me there, you know that? I love thee, worship thee, and to know you’re here waiting for me, fills my soul.’

She looked up into his adoring face, and in her shyness could not tell him that he made her clumsy body feel as light as the day they first made love on the mountain. She felt beautiful again under his gaze, and she glowed.

That night the four of them ate a celebration dinner. Freedom was in high spirits, laughing and playing the fool, showing Freda some new dance steps. Ed put his arm around Evelyne, his eyes shining as he watched Freedom with total adoration. He just loved the lad to death. ‘He’s done well, Evie love, not just fighting, and he’s near nine thousand dollars richer — you’re looking at a wealthy gent.’

Evelyne gasped with astonishment. ‘Nine thousand? But that’s … why, Ed, that’s …’

Ed laughed as she tried to translate dollars into pounds. ‘Why, Ed, we’re millionaires!’ Suddenly she looked at Freedom, who was grinning broadly. He danced around the table with Freda, pausing briefly to turn the radio up even louder as he swung her in his arms.

‘Ed, can I have a little word?’ Evelyne asked quietly.

Puffing on his cigar, Ed walked with her to the verandah. She looked over her shoulder and whispered, ‘Ed, he’s not got it all, has he? You know what a spendthrift he is …’

Ed chortled, ‘There’s no need to tell me, Evie love. Sir Charles keeps it in the hotel safes for us. ‘E’ll take care of it, ‘cause we’ll have taxes an’ fings to work out before we leave.’

They could hear Freda insisting that Freedom try her banana and raspberry milk shake. She had taken to making elaborate concoctions in her new blender and, of course, feasting on them herself. She had gained at least eight pounds since they had arrived.

Ed turned his adoring expression on his little wife, ‘My Gawd, she can certainly put the food away, what a woman.’

‘Ed … will he win? Tell me, please — I can see his face, his body’s all bruised, will he win?’

Ed assured her that, with rest and preparation, Freedom would win. There was nothing to worry about. ‘He’s goin’ ter beat Sharkey, love, I know it.’

Evelyne planted a kiss on his shiny nose, then went into Freedom’s arms. They danced around the room.

Ed’s good-humoured expression faded quickly. Even from where he was standing, he could see Freedom’s swollen face. He knew there would barely be time for it to go down before he went into the ring again. Ed didn’t like it at all, especially with Freedom’s bruised ribs. He sighed, turned to stare out at the ocean. He tossed his cigar away — it tasted bitter, he felt bitter. He muttered under his breath, ‘Bastards, you bastards … some rest he’s gonna get … bastards.’

Freedom took himself off to bed carrying his son high on his shoulders. Tired as he was, he wanted to bath the little fellow and spend some time with him because he had been away so long.

Freda and Evelyne washed up the dishes. By the time Evelyne went to bed Freedom was sleeping. In the crook of his arm lay Edward, who had crawled out of his cot and into the double bed. The child was fast asleep. With his thatch of dark hair and suntanned body he looked like a miniature of his father. Evelyne stood looking at them both, not wanting to disturb them, then slipped downstairs to lie on the settee. She felt her belly and knew that this time she would be there at the ringside, he would not be coming for another two months.

She slept fitfully, Freedom’s bruised face floating in her mind’s eye. She woke in the early dawn, cold, her body stiff. All around her lay the gifts, the child’s toys, and she picked up the tiny boxing gloves. She would hide these, Edward would never have them, never have his face bruised and cut like his father’s. Now they had the money she would be able to send him to a good school.

Evelyne smiled, hugging herself with pleasure. She could picture the house they would buy with the money, maybe even a pony for Edward. She would also take herself back to school — yes, she would pick up her studies. When she was qualified and the boys were grown, she could start teaching again. As the sun came up, Evelyne made notes on all the things she would do with the money, using one of the drawing books she had bought for Edward. She enjoyed writing and it had been a long time since she had written anything. She sighed as she looked at her handwriting. Perhaps with their new-found fortune she could persuade Freedom to learn too. Suddenly the thought of how much more they would take home when Freedom won the title made her gasp. She laughed out loud, then put her hand over her mouth, realizing how silly she must look.

She placed the notebook carefully in a dressing-table drawer, inching it open silently so as not to wake Freedom, then slipped into the warm bed beside him and their son. She sighed with happiness and found, to her amazement, that she could recall word for word Christina Rossetti’s The Dream.

She laid her hand on Freedom’s thigh. He turned towards her and, still asleep, pulled her to him. Cradled in his arms, with Edward asleep at Freedom’s side, Evelyne felt happier than she had in her whole life. The future was rosy, glowing, and financially secure at long last. She fell into a deep, contented sleep.

Chapter 25

The fight was now only days away, and pre-fight fever made the villa a target for reporters. They photographed Freedom running along the beach, they tried to get to see him at the gym, and he was photographed with Dempsey. Ed finally had to ban the press completely so his fighter could concentrate on training.

Tension mounted in the house. Meals were worked around when Freedom was ready to eat, when he finished, when he slept. He kept himself apart from them all as much as possible, and had been sleeping in the spare room, as litde Edward woke often in the night, and Freedom had to rise at the crack of dawn to train.

There was not a mark left on his face from his previous bouts. The small scar under his left eye had healed and he was in peak condition. As the day drew closer and closer, they read in the papers about the arrival of Jack Sharkey.

Every day Freda read the papers avidly, as there were so many articles about Freedom. She cut each one out and put them into a scrapbook. She would then display her cuttings and handwritten notes at breakfast. Evelyne started one, too, and the women would discuss the layout of their books together.

On a recent trip into town for groceries, Evelyne had bought two books and had taken to reading each afternoon on the porch. She loved the gentle, romantic, beautifully structured stories of Jane Austen.

Edward and Freda were making sandcastles on the beach. Evelyne could hear Freda screeching, ‘Eddie! Eddie, that’s far enough in the water … Eddie!’ No matter how often Evelyne corrected her, she still called him Eddie. Evelyne sighed and tutted. Jane Austen would not have approved.

Far along the beach she could see Freedom running, no more than a small black dot. Ed drove the hired motorcar alongside, the exhaust leaving a trail of blue smoke in the warm air. Evelyne checked the time — she still had a few precious moments alone before the house would again revolve around Freedom. He ate early, a large steak, salad and fresh fruit, and drank a strange mixture that Freda spent ages mixing in her treasured blender. It consisted of raw eggs, milk, honey, and a vitamin powder Ed had been given by Dempsey. Freedom’s training schedule ruled their lives, and now that Evelyne knew what was at stake financially, she made every effort not to disturb his rigorous routine. Meal-time and exercise charts hung all over the kitchen. The lounge was now used for Freedom’s massage and as a place to discuss tactics, and the two of them spent hours closeted in there. In the afternoons Freedom went to Dempsey’s gymnasium to work out on the proper equipment, returning for his long run, his massage, dinner and bed. The fight was drawing closer and closer, but if Freedom was nervous he took pains not to show it in front of the women. Ed was sharp-tempered if they were a minute off schedule, but neither Freda nor Evelyne argued. The fight was all-important.

Ed had taken Evelyne aside for one of their private chats. Flushing with embarrassment, he forced himself to say what had to be said, ‘Now, love, I know he won’t tell you, so it’s up to me — yer not to ‘ave it away, not ‘til after the fight.’

Evelyne smothered her smile and stared, poker-faced, at Ed, ‘Have what away? I don’t follow you, Ed.’

‘Now, now, yer know what I mean! He’s in the spare room and, well, yer see, one night’s love-makin’, Evie, is equivalent to about a six-mile run — d’yer understand me now? Conserve ‘is energy.’

Evelyne repeated what Ed had said to Miss Freda. She patted her hair looking at her dumpy little husband, ‘Well, I wish he’d do a bit of training. I don’t know what’s come over him of late, I think it’s nerves, either that or he’s been taking your Freedom’s vitamins.’ Ed, unaware that they were whispering about him, paced up and down. Evelyne kept her face straight as she looked back at Freda. ‘I don’t think it’s vitamins, Freda. It’s that floating nightdress with all the swansdown he brought you from New York, makes you look the image of Fay Wray.’

Freda giggled as Ed gave them a grunt, and walked out. ‘Well darlink, if that’s true, he’s King Kong. Tonight I’ll put my flannel nightie on, that’ll finish him off”, always has before …’

The two women giggled and looked through all the film magazines Ed had bought. Evelyne had to put her hand over her mouth as she caught Freda looking at herself in the mirror. She had made up her mouth with a cupid’s bow and obviously thought she really did look like Fay Wray, or Clara Bow. She pursed her lips and batted her thickly mascara’d eyelashes. ‘Oh, I just don’t know what I am going to wear for the fight, have you thought about your outfit, Evie?’

Evelyne’s good humour evaporated. Her stomach turned over — just for a few moments she had forgotten about the fight. There were only three days to go … ‘Oh God, Freda, it’s not long now, not long.’

They both turned to the calendar where the dates were marked with crosses. Those few days slipped by fast.

On the day of the big fight Freedom left early with Ed. They all hugged him and wished him well. He kissed his son, and waved to them all as the car disappeared down the drive. The villa felt very quiet without him and Ed, and the day seemed to stretch endlessly ahead for Freda and Evelyne.

Jack Sharkey and Freedom faced each other at the weighing-in. Freedom had learnt fast — he out-stared Sharkey, glared for the press cameras and whispered that he was going to wipe the floor with Sharkey. He held up his fist for the photographers.

In the stiflingly hot dressing room, the thunder of the crowd could be heard. Ed bandaged Freedom’s fists, and Dempsey came in, raising his clenched fist to Freedom in salute. Sir Charles, Tex and Kearn also made an appearance, Sir Charles bringing a crowd of visiting English aristocracy who all wanted to meet Freedom. Finally, Ed ordered everybody out and banged the door shut.

The seconds were sweating with nerves as they checked their equipment — the buckets, sponges, gumshield, plasters and towels. ‘.

Having finished bandaging Freedom’s right hand, Ed gestured for him to lift his left. When he was wrapping the cloth tightly between Freedom’s fingers, Freedom asked. ‘They in their seats yet, Ed? Is she here?’

Ed gave the nod to one of the seconds to check that the women were there, and he came back saying they were, and that the excited Edward was standing up in his seat waving a rattle. Having finished the bandaging, Ed started to massage Freedom’s shoulders. He could feel the tension and kept up a steady flow of chatter, easing the stiffness from the muscles. ‘Now remember the rules, Freedom. Make sure if e goes down you get over to the neutral corner fast as your legs’ll carry yer. That’s the law, they won’t start the count until you’re in the neutral.’

Freedom cuffed Ed good-naturedly on the chin. Before every single bout Ed went on like this, as if Freedom didn’t know. Ed was keeping an eye on the clock — it was almost time. They waited for the referee to come in and inspect the bandages. At last he arrived and checked each hand meticulously, then patted Freedom’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go over it in the ring, but I like to have a private word before the bout, understand me? Okay, you break when I tell you, no low punches, no holding. And remember, if either man goes down, you must return to the neutral corner for the count. I will not count until the fighter is in the corner — understand? We got judges each side of the ring, their decision is based on the effectiveness of your punches, they want nice, clean, forceful punches … Okay, right, we go in ten minutes, and good luck.’

Ed began to tie on the gloves, still talking in his soft, non-stop way. ‘Remember yer get points for aggression, so go in there ter win. Sustain the rounds, don’t pussy-foot up there, get in an’ take ‘im. This is the big one and the most important to date, so I want you in there ter win, you wiv me? You wiv me? Yer goin’ ter knock ‘im out, and yer goin’ ter get that title, yes? Yes, yes?’

Freedom slapped Ed’s open palm and yelled back, ‘Yes yes yes!’

There was a knock on the door and they were told to stand by. Ed pulled the robe around Freedom’s shoulders and double-checked that the corner men had everything ready. After one last look, he winked and they went out through the door.

The stadium was packed to capacity and the thunder of the crowd’s noise drowned out Ed’s pep talk. At the opposite entrance stood Sharkey, hopping from one leg to the other, waiting for the signal to enter the ring. A fanfare started up and the audience rose to their feet as the band played the ‘Victory March’.

Edward was jumping up and down in his — seat, not really understanding what was going on but loving every minute of it. Evelyne’s heart was thudding, and she felt the baby kicking inside her. The heat in the stadium was overpowering and the noise like thunderclaps overhead. Freda held Evelyne’s hand tight, both their palms sticky from nerves.

The crowd roared as Freedom entered the ring, hemmed in by Ed and the seconds, with eight attendants to keep back the well-wishers’ outstretched hands.

‘Ladies and gentlemennnn … in the left-hand corner, the British Heavyweight Champion Freedom Stubbs, wearing the black shorts. Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds. In the right-hand corner, Jack Sharkey, from New York City, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds!’

Not a single one of the ringmaster’s words about Sharkey was heard, the crowd rose with a deafening cheer, flowers were thrown and feet thudded on the wooden stands.

The two boxers met in the centre of the ring, while the band played first the ‘Stars and Stripes’, then ‘God Save the King’. The referee was introduced, to whistles and cheers, and the boxers retired to their corners.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, there will be twenty rounds of two minutes each round.’

The judges took their bows and went to their seats, flowers and streamers were removed from the ring, and the gong was held up for display. Slowly the stadium grew quieter and quieter as they waited expectantly for the bout to begin.

Freedom glanced quickly over at Evelyne and smiled. She wanted to cry out, reach out to him and touch him. His hair, oiled to keep it off his face, was tied back in a leather thong, and his eyes, brows and cheeks were smeared with Vaseline. The gumshield was put into place and he sat poised and ready.

Sharkey delayed getting his gumshield in, talking to his trainer. The gong clanged loudly, and both men were up and moving to the centre of the ring. The seconds were out, taking the stools with them. Freda was shouting, ‘Come on Freedom, come on Freedom …’

The boxers were well-matched, and it was not until round four that the crowd began to settle down. The two men were in close, jabbing, punching, trying to find each other’s weaknesses. It was a good, clean fight when suddenly a punch that Evelyne didn’t even see made Freedom’s whole body buckle, and he fell to his knees. The crowd went wild. Ed waved his towel, screaming at the top of his voice, and climbed into the ring. There was almost a fight between Ed and the referee, two judges conferred and Freda was on her feet screaming along with everyone else in the front rows. ‘Foul…Foul…Foul…!’

Freedom was helped to his feet by the ref, who looked into his face and turned, holding off Sharkey with his right hand. He was not counting. Sharkey, panicking, thought he had been disqualified, and turned to his seconds, who now got into the ring. The chant of ‘foul’ was taken up by a vast group at the back of the stadium, and the sing-song of ‘low punch, low punch …’

The referee was holding Ed off, and Freedom backed, bent over slightly and shook his head. To everyone’s amazement, the referee held up his hand and gave a two-minute respite to Freedom, throughout which Sharkey fumed and raged like a madman. Ed had to be hauled out of the ring, still insisting it was a foul, but the ref gave the signal for the round to continue.

The muscles in Freedom’s left leg were seizing up, and it felt as if it were paralysed. For the duration of the round he fended off Sharkey’s punches as best he could and at the end he limped back to his corner, which drew a series of loud boos and catcalls from the spectators.

Evelyne sat huddled in her seat. She couldn’t understand what was going on, he was in pain and she knew it. ‘He’s hurt, Freda, he’s hurt, he can hardly walk.’

In desperation Ed massaged Freedom’s leg, at the same time yelling above the noise to Freedom, ‘You want me to stop the fight? Tell me, shall 1 stop the fight, can you move it, Jesus God, can you move your leg?’

The seconds could see that Freedom’s old cut was an angry red, and they plastered it with grease … Ed had actually reached for the towel to throw it into the ring when the gong sounded for the round to begin. Ed knew his boy was hurt, it was obvious from his stance. This wasn’t Freedom’s style, he was a mover, and a fast one.

Freedom took a series of short, fast jabs to his face and keeled over backwards, lost his balance and fell heavily out of the ring. Evelyne was on her feet, tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t stand to see it, see him hurt, she wanted him never to get back into the ring. The crowd around her were screaming like wild animals.

The referee started the count, holding Sharkey back as Freedom hauled himself back into the ring. The fall had cut him just above his left ear, and blood was trickling down on to his shoulder. Ed was at breaking point, but held back by the seconds. He wanted to throw in the towel; it was obvious Freedom couldn’t stand properly. His left leg was dragging, useless. Freedom was taking his punishment, gritting his teeth to hold on until the round ended. It was taking everything he had just to stand with the agonizing pain in his left leg and the feeling that someone was hacking into his spine … Every movement made it worse.

Sharkey took every opportunity, spurred on by relief at not getting disqualified, and came on to Freedom with punch after punch. He was a short jab man, and Freedom was on the end of his hard rights time and time again. He felt his nose split open and stood dazed as the bell rang for the end of the round.

Ed concentrated on Freedom’s face and begged him to throw in the towel. Blood was pouring from his nose, and the cut above his ear wouldn’t stay shut. ‘It’s over, Freedom, it’s over, he’s mauling you.’

Sir Charles sat stiffly through the next round, not making a sound, and his companions went quiet as they saw his champion beaten. There was nothing anyone could say, the ring said it all, the crowds bayed for a knockout and Sir Charles knew they would get it at any moment. There was a flash of Freedom’s old brilliance, but he stumbled and took a left hook to his jaw that lifted him off the canvas. No one could believe he would get up from it, but he did. It was tragic to see him swaying, blinded by his own blood, and for Evelyne and Freda it was a nightmare. Edward shouted, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ and waved his rattle, thinking it was all a game. Evelyne hugged the child to her and sobbed; she couldn’t bear to look into the ring.

At long last Freedom was down and out for the count, but there was none of the hysterical cheering. The crowd went quiet as they saw Freedom’s terrible injuries and the pitiful attempts of his seconds to bring him round. His blood was all over the canvas, all over his opponent.

The referee held up Sharkey’s hand as Ed was still trying to bring Freedom to. He lay face down, breathing in the resin, and eventually the two seconds managed to lift him back to his seat. From then on it was a blur to all those close to Freedom — the ride in the ambulance, the wait outside the hospital room for news. Ed wept unashamedly, but Freda had strength enough for them all. She chided Ed, saying he must put on a brave face for Freedom, Freedom mustn’t see him like this. Evelyne cradled the sleeping child and was so exhausted she couldn’t even cry.

The doctors took Ed aside and said that Freedom was going to be all right. He was semi-paralysed down his left side. They doubted that the paralysis would be permanent, and hoped he would recover the use of his leg completely. The blow to the side of Freedom’s head caused much more worry, and although he had regained a semblance of consciousness he wasn’t lucid. So they had taken X-rays of his skull and he was under sedation.

Ed went into the private room. Unable to speak he just stood looking at the still figure with the terribly swollen face and broken nose plastered up, and his heart

broke. The room was silent except for Freedom’s shallow breathing, and Ed touched his hand and had to hurry out before he broke down.

Ed tried to persuade Evelyne to go home with Freda, but he hadn’t counted on her strength of will. She refused point-blank to move, insisting that Freda and Ed take the child home and return in the morning. Evelyne sat outside the room, quiet, alone, her eyes closed. She prayed for him, hand to her heart, and whispered his name over and over again.

Sir Charles was led past the waiting room. He could see her, her anguished face, as she waited. He followed the nurse down the corridor and into Freedom’s room. The nurse hovered at the door.

‘Thank you, I won’t be a moment.’ Left alone with the shrouded figure in the bed, surrounded by machines and intravenous drips, Sir Charles stood as if frozen. Slowly, without making a sound, he inched towards the bed, peered down into the distorted face with the swollen eyes and the thick bandages over the broken nose. He removed his monocle and his mouth twitched.

Freedom’s hands were unmarked, his long, tapering fingers resting peacefully on the white sheet, making Sir Charles want to weep. Such fine hands, he had never really noticed them before. He looked towards the door, then reached out and touched Freedom’s hand, as if afraid, then bent and kissed the tips of the fingers. Then he slipped from the room and walked back along the corridor to where Evelyne waited.

He looked embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say to her, and he tapped his walking stick on the blue lino, making small indentations. She said not one word, but stared at him, her face tight and angry, her eyes cold.

‘I’ll make sure all the hospital bills are taken care of, and, well, any expenses will, of course, be paid. I’m sorry.’

She wanted to strike him, smash his arrogant, stiff face, hit him so hard that his monocle would shatter on the floor. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, what about his heart, can you pay for that, too? He’ll not get over this and you know it.’

He coughed, shuffled his feet and said he would be flying to Chicago the following morning, and would no doubt see them on their return to England.

‘He’s just like one of your thoroughbreds really, isn’t he, sir? Except when they break a leg you shoot them. Where’s your gun? You’re finished with him now, aren’t you? Just like that, because he didn’t win.’

Sir Charles went white with anger at her rudeness. ‘Your husband never did anything he didn’t want to. You of all people should know that. No one forced him into the ring and no one is to blame. He is a sportsman.’

Evelyne moved closer to him and her fists clenched. ‘ You forced him and you know it, you never let him off the hook, did you? Because you owned him, from the day you first met him, you bought him.’

Sir Charles snapped that perhaps she would have preferred him to hang, as he most assuredly could have done without him.

‘He repaid you, every penny you spent on that court case. How much have you made out of him?’

He pushed her away from him, his face ashen. His fury, usually so controlled, burst out. ‘If there was anyone to blame, my dear, it was you, you who never let him be, you hung on to your meal ticket as he would have hanged from a rope. Do you think I don’t know that?’

Evelyne slapped his face so hard that he reeled backwards. Taking out a silk handkerchief he dabbed at the corners of his mouth, then replaced his monocle and reached for the door handle. He froze for a moment, his back to her, his voice choked, ‘Forgive me, I should never, never have said those things to you. I cannot say how deeply sorry I am, I can only say that I am as distraught about what has happened as you are. You won’t believe me, but it is the truth.’

Evelyne gave him a bitter smile, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, but he did turn towards her. ‘I remember him from those early days, at Devil’s Pit. I had such hopes for him, and they did not include you. I am sorry, perhaps I had a reason — you may call it jealousy, whatever you wish. But you have him now, he’s all yours, and I feel sure your love for each other will be strong enough to overcome this sad situation.’

He wanted to leave but Evelyne caught his arm, and only his icy stare made her release him.

‘They say he’ll never fight again, do you know that? And I don’t want him to, ever. Stay out of our lives, stay away from him, we don’t need you.’

He gave her a brief nod, said his contract with Freedom was void as of that day. He opened the door, holding his back ramrod-stiff, and walked out. He said his last words to the corridor, not even directing them at Evelyne, ‘You never needed me, my dear, never.’

Sir Charles walked slowly out of the hospital. His car drew up and he stepped in and leaned his head on the soft leather. He had a clear picture of the very first time he had seen Freedom, there at Devil’s Pit, with his flowing hair and perfect body. How could those foolish people know, understand anything? No other man had had such care and attention lavished on him, but they believed it had been purely business.

‘I wanted him, I wanted him.’

The chauffeur turned a puzzled look to Sir Charles, they were still outside the hospital and he was not sure where he was supposed to take his passenger. Sir Charles opened his eyes and snapped that they were going to his hotel immediately; he had already made the decision not to return to Chicago, there was nothing there for him. He decided to go to Hollywood. Perhaps there he would find what he was always searching for but so afraid to make happen. Hollywood beckoned, the decadence, the freedom to love whom he chose.

Evelyne saw the limousine drive away and knew that an episode in her life, in all their lives, had closed.

At three o’clock the nurse came out with some hot tea for Evelyne and told her Freedom was asking for her. The nurse was worried, the woman looked heavily pregnant, and quietly warned her that he was not lucid, still under the effects of the drugs.

Evelyne walked to the bedside, and sat in the chair the nurse had placed there for her. Freedom’s hands were still, lying on top of the folded white sheet. His face, so bruised and beaten, looked grotesque with the bandages over his nose.

‘That you, manushiy that you?’

She took his hand and kissed it, whispering that she was there, she was there, and to go to sleep.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry, manushi, sorry …’

The tears she thought had dried up flowed freely, dripping on to his hand, and he slept, holding her tight, afraid to let her go. In his sleep he was running through the fields, he was dragging the wild horse towards him and riding bareback through the clean, sweet, fresh air.

In the morning Ed came to find her still holding Freedom’s hand, her head resting on the bed. He eased her away and she tried to argue, but he said it was not tor her but for the baby, she must eat.

The villa’s shutters were closed; Evelyne didn’t want the sunlight, she wanted the dark to wrap around her and comfort her. Freda came and sat beside her, held her hand.

‘Sir Charles was at the hospital. He said Freedom’s contract was cancelled.’

Freda wanted to cry, but she kept herself under control. ‘We’ll go home, Ed says, as soon as Freedom’s well.’

‘How did Sir Charles come to have all that money? It doesn’t seem right, the way he can pick people up, then drop them.’

Freda sighed and patted Evelyne’s hand. ‘Well, darlink, he never even met any of his miners, but he treats them the same way.’

‘What do you mean?’

Surprised she didn’t know, Freda told her Sir Charles’ family money was made from coal mining. She was taken aback when Evelyne laughed, a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘My God, I should have known it. I hate him, Freda, I hate him so.’

‘He has troubles, too, Evie. His trustees, so Ed tells me, always keep him short of money, he has to fight them all the time.’

‘Keep him short? He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. My brothers worked the mines, their knees cut and their elbows bent, their backs torn to shreds. He wouldn’t know what it felt like to go short, to beg for a crust of bread. I hate him.’

Freda saw the rage in Evelyne, the deep anger, unleash itself. The violent movements of her hands emphasized what she was saying, ‘I wonder how much he made out of him, how much? It’ll be more than we have coming to us. Dear God, Freda, I hate that man so much I could go and … and …’

Suddenly Evelyne was sobbing, her shoulders heaving. Freda stroked her hair, knowing it was best Evie should cry, to release her anger. It wasn’t really hatred for Sir Charles, it was her pain for Freedom.

Ed came home from the hospital, heavy-hearted. He laid his straw hat down. ‘I dunno what’s goin’ ter ‘appen, Freda, they tell me he’s still paralysed down ‘is left side. It must’ve ‘appened when he fell outta the ring. I should’ve stopped ‘im, Freda, I ‘ad the chance first time ‘e went down. I should’ve made ‘im quit. But I wanted ‘im ter win so bad … wanted ‘im ter win, an’ I failed ‘im, I failed my boy, Freda.’ He rubbed his head, held his hand out to Freda. He clung to her and sobbed, and she rocked him in her arms. Ed wasn’t weeping for a fighter, the loss of the championship — he was heart-broken for his ‘golden boy’, his ‘son’.

They could hear Evelyne moving around upstairs; she came down with her face set, pale and drawn from crying. ‘Ed, will you drive me to the cab stand. I’ll go back to the hospital, sit with him until morning.’

Ed wiped his tears with the back of his;hand, afraid Evelyne had seen. He put his straw hat on at a jaunty angle.

‘Right, then, let’s be ‘avin’ yer.’

Sir Charles had been so silent, so preoccupied that Dewhurst crept around the hotel suite. ‘I’ve packed everything, sir, and we are ready whenever you wish to leave.’

Sir Charles gave him a small smile. ‘Jolly good. I’ll be flying, I know how you feel about planes, if you would prefer to travel straight back to the Grange I can arrange your passage.’

‘Oh, that’s very good of you, sir, but I have a great inclination to see Hollywood. They say there’s a guided tour of the film stars’ homes that’s rather special.’

Sir Charles nodded, but seemed loath to leave.

‘Will you be wanting to drive to the hospital before we depart, sir?’

He received no answer. ‘May I ask how Mr Stubbs is, sir?’

Sir Charles stood up, straight as an arrow. He placed a long finger on the centre of his forehead as if he were in pain, and his voice sounded strangled, ‘ ‘Fraid he’s not too good, old chap, will you make sure they have their passages arranged, the boat, will you do that?’

He swallowed, still pressing his finger to his head, then took out a silk handkerchief and blew his nose.

‘Will you be looking for a new fighter, sir?’

Sir Charles tucked his handkerchief back into his top pocket, making sure the folds were sitting exactly as they should. ‘No, there’ll be no more fighters, Dewhurst. Er! Well, hurry along and I’ll meet you at the car.’

As the door closed behind Dewhurst, Sir Charles stared around the room. Crumpled in the waste basket was the fight programme, Freedom’s face twisted and torn. The wondrous face, the long, flying hair, the ‘Gypsy King’ … He picked it up, took it to the table and tried to press out the creases, but they would not be smoothed. The beautiful face was cracked, crumpled, and Sir Charles tore it into tiny fragments. But the face was still there, in front of him on the polished table. He felt as if Freedom were in the room with him and it frightened him.

Freedom lay still, his breathing shallow, and Evelyne sat beside him. For a moment his eyes opened, and he murmured, ‘Sir Charles? Did he come, Evie?’

‘He’s gone, darling, we’re free of him now. There’ll be no more fighting, it’s over.’

Freedom’s body trembled, he moaned softly. His lips moved as if he were saying something she couldn’t quite hear. She leaned closer, but the words were in his own language, jumbled, strange, sighing words. The trembling grew stronger, his whole body shaking. He gripped her hand tightly, and the tremor ran through her, making her body feel electrified. He gripped tighter, tighter, until her hand hurt, but she couldn’t release it. Then, just as it had started, die shaking ceased. Freedom sighed, a long, soft moan that continued for almost half a minute. Evelyne drew back her hand, afraid, but now he was relaxed, a sweet smile on his lips. The time was exactly twelve o’clock, Evelyne knew it was exactly on the hour because her wrist watch had stopped.

Sir Charles looked at the dials, die needles were swinging round and round, and the engine cut … without power, they were dropping from the sky, a dead weight. Dewhurst tried to unbuckle his seat belt to get to his master, but there was no time. It was over in seconds, the plane spiralling as it made its terrifying journey to the ground. Sir Charles tried desperately to regain power, and then he gave up. A face, blurred, floated in the clouds like a hand-coloured photograph, but it was cracked and torn. In the seconds before the plane crashed into the Nevada desert, Sir Charles Wheeler saw the face of Freedom Stubbs, not as he had been when Sir Charles had first seen him in the ring, like a wild animal at Devil’s Pit, but bloody, beaten, crumpled like the programme in the hotel waste paper basket.

The search party found the wreckage from the sky. The black smoke curling up in a spiral, thick grey and red smoke clouding the air with black specks of charred dollar bills. All Freedom Stubbs’ winnings, all Ed Meadows’ hardearned wages, all gone. The plane was no more than a shell when the rescuers came on the scene.

They knew exactly what time the plane had crashed. Sir Charles’ fob watch had stopped at precisely twelve o’clock. The dials on the plane’s control panel were cracked and broken from the heat and the impact of the crash. The clock on the panel had also stopped at twelve o’clock.