Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Evelyne looked hard at the women, as outrageous as their men, dancing on the tables holding their skirts high, garters flashing. One girl named Tulip had stripped off her dress and was dancing in her shift. She had bobbed hair and was very pretty.

One young chap with a lady’s garter around his head seemed to be having a great time, waving a walking stick in the air. Evelyne craned her neck to see over the table then sat back quickly — he was in a wheelchair, he had no legs. As she looked around the dark, music-filled restaurant she could see that several of the boys were minus one or two limbs. The crazy atmosphere began to change, it became hotter and hotter, and Evelyne wanted to leave. David sat staring sullenly into space. She tapped his arm. ‘David, I think we should go.’

He turned and stared at her as if he didn’t know her for a moment, then he smiled his wonderful smile and cocked his head to one side.

‘Whatever you say, darling one.’ He jumped up on to the table and yelled at the top of his voice that it was time to go. ‘Come on, come on or we’ll miss the fight, we can have our fortunes read, everybody, let’s rollll…’

From beneath a table Tulip emerged, her lipstick smeared, pulling down her undershirt. She searched for her dress and spotted one of the boys dancing round in it. She gave chase with squealing laughs.

‘Tulip, you naughty girl, come along and get your knickers on.’

She turned, and pursed her smeared, cupid’s bow lips.

‘I would, duckie, but I can’t find ‘em.’ At the reception desk Freddy Carlton swayed, a large cigar in his mouth, holding his open wallet. Tulip leaned on his arm.

‘Give me some too, Freddy, I want to make a bet on the boxers, ohhh, Freddy, who’s a booful boy!’

‘I say, Bunny, are we splitting this or what, it’s jolly expensive, ya know … Bunny?’

Bunny waved as he slithered down the wall, and Freddy handed over all he had and tossed the empty wallet over his shoulder.

Evelyne caught David’s hand as he led her back to his car. He stopped, holding her at arm’s length.

‘What a lovely creature you are.’

Evelyne’s heart was pounding. He pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands, and gently kissed her. She moaned with pleasure, and he kissed her neck, her ear. Then he whispered.

‘Where are you staying? Back at the house?’

She touched his silky hair, said she was in a small hotel. He caught her in his arms, swung her round.

‘We’ll go back to the house later, would you like that, my lovely?’

Choked with tears, all Evelyne could do was nod in agreement. She felt as if she would explode with happiness. David tooted the horn.

‘To the fair, to the fair.’

The car roared off, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the clear night air.

Freedom Stubbs sat in the back of the covered wagon as it jolted its way to the match. He sat quietly, bandaging his right hand, intent on getting the bandages tight the way he liked them. His left fist would be done by Kaulo Woods. Kaulo sat opposite Freedom and looked out of the canvas flap of the wagon, then turned to Freedom.

‘I kair’d a lot of wongar acoi, I chopped my vardo for another, maybe I’ll dock’d to rardi? (I made a deal of money here, I exchanged my van for another, let’s hope I do it tonight.)

Kaulo leant over and began to bandage Freedom’s left hand. He shot a slanted look up at Freedom who was leaning back against the side of the wagon, his eyes closed. He looked as if he was going for a moonlight stroll rather than a heavy fight. His breathing was as regular as if he was sleeping. Kaulo could weigh the big hand, Freedom was so relaxed, letting Kaulo bandage between his fingers and across the knuckles.

Freedom looked at the small, skinny, elderly man hunched on his left, smiled at him, nodded and rested his head again on the side of the jolting wagon. The old man finished the bandaging, picked up his fiddle and began to play, singing softly.

Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen, Can you chin the cosh …

Freedom clenched his fists, nodded to Kaulo that all was fine, all the while tapping his foot to the rhythm of the old gypsy’s fiddle.

Two other fighters were further up the wagon, their hands, like Freedom’s, bandaged and ready. They were smaller in build, dark and swarthy, and they sat hunched on the benches facing each other. Freedom always sat apart. He stood apart from them anyway, because he was six foot four. This was tall for anyone — never mind a Romany — but then it was known that his blood wasn’t pure. Freedom was a half-caste. His mother, Romalla, was the daughter of a Romany king, and Freedom’s birth had brought shame to the family. His mother was dishonoured, an outcast, and she had been forced to join another, non-elitist, Romany camp. Her father had refused to have anything to do with her and hadn’t spoken to her since, nor had any member of her family.

Romalla was a catch to have in any camp. She was not only a princess of pure blood, but she carried the powers with her. That made her a valuable asset as a money-earner. Freedom had inherited her powers, but he didn’t use them; it wasn’t done for a male Romany to read hands. However, he had proved to be of royal blood even though half-caste, and was accepted by the lower ranks as a prince. This made him acceptable, and he roamed from camp to camp, even as a child, taken into many families and treated with respect. The stigma of the words posh ta posh — bastard — having no effect on him, at least outwardly.

Romalla was rumoured to have had many lovers, and who Freedom’s blood father was no one ever discovered. Or if anyone knew they kept quiet, not wanting to earn Freedom’s tippoty, or wrath. He was both respected and feared, and although still only twenty-four it was likely that he would become a clan leader. Romalla had died three summers ago of a heart attack. The news was brought to Freedom by a courier carrying the charred back wheel of her caravan, all her goods having been burnt with her body. The wheel was proof she had gone and it was handed to him to roll his fortune further. Romalla had died without revealing who Freedom’s father had been. All she had ever said was that he was a ‘lion of a man’ and one she was proud to have bedded, always implying that the man had been her choice, and one she knew would dishonour her.

Freedom was now becoming famous as a heavyweight boxer and had already made a lot of money for the travellers. The wagon entered the field where the fair was being held and the big tent for the boxing match had already been erected. A beautiful young girl was sitting on a low wall at the entrance. As the wagon rumbled through she jumped down and ran to it, directing the horses to the space allocated for the wagon. It was the best place near the exit; the best was always reserved for Freedom.

When the wagon was in position, Rawnie pulled back the canvas flap. She was a stunning Romany dukkerin, and she would make good money at the side shows tonight. She was decked out in all her finery, her red silk shawl wrapped around her head, her hair in two long braids down to her waist. There were gold studs in her ears with loops of gold coins dangling from them. She wore rings and bangles, and even a ruby stud on the side of her nose. Coal dust enhanced the blackness of her slanting eyes, and she would bite her full lips until they shone as red as the ruby in her nose.

She jumped aboard the wagon, pulling behind her a heavy wooden box of food and drink for the men. She always served Freedom first, she was his manushi, and although all the men were after her she had eyes only for Freedom. As the men ate the cooked rabbit with chunks of bread and steaming, sweet tea, Mr Beshaley came aboard.