Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘Ya gel’s gone off with a gyppo, we hear, Hugh boy. Like ‘em big, does she?’

The toothless old domino players cackled and coughed and went silent as they fingered their empty mugs.

Eventually, Hugh lurched out of the pub, and one old boy creaked to his feet and pottered over to drain the very last dregs from Hugh’s fifth pint.

‘All right fer some buggers, course, she hadda legacy, that’s wot’s carryin’ ‘im.’

Gladys could smell the drink on Hugh’s breath. She said nothing, but folded her arms. She’d not seen him this bad before. He had a tipple like the rest of the men, but he was well away tonight. ‘Have you eaten, lovey?’

‘The lad got off free, Gladys, the gypsy, they found him not guilty.’

Gladys pursed her lips.

‘Well, we know who we’ve got to thank for that, so the least said the better.’

Gladys couldn’t even say the girl’s name. She shuddered as Hugh put out his big hand to her, not even looking at her. ‘Come here, come here, whassamatter with you? Come here.’

Gladys wouldn’t move, she muttered that he was drunk and that he knew how she hated it, the drink.

He stood up, almost stumbled, straightened up and put his cap on. ‘I’ll be away then, goodnight.’

Gladys bit her lip as Hugh tried clumsily to open the door. He swore, and kicked it.

‘We’re going to have to talk, Hugh, a proper talk, not now, when you’re sober.’

He turned on her and glared, he wasn’t drunk, that was what was wrong with him, he wasn’t drunk. ‘I don’t belong here, Gladys, I never did.’

Gladys let rip, afraid of losing him, afraid of having him. She became hysterical, her voice shrieking, ‘She’s not coming back, Hugh, you’ve been waiting for her to come home. Well she’s gone, and you walk out that door you’ll not come over my doorstep again. She’s no good, you’re well rid of her.’

Hugh gave her such a look that her blood froze. ‘You’re not fit to clean her shoes, woman.’

Gladys burst into tears and Hugh strode out into the wet, dark street. As he turned the corner into Aldergrove Street he quickened his pace, the lights were on in the house, the lights … Evelyne had come home.

He ran the last fifty yards like a young man, round into the back alley, overturning milk cans, till he burst into the kitchen.

‘Evie? Evie? Evie …?’

It was Hugh that had left the gaslights burning. He laboured for breath, realizing the house was empty. Pain shot up his left arm like a red-hot poker, shooting and burning.

‘Evie? Evie} Oh God, gel, come home.’

He picked up the newspaper, his breath heaving in his chest. The gas lamps lit the picture like a Chinese lantern, the faces alive, looking at him, and it was the face of Freedom, with the black hair, the arrogant slanted eyes and high cheekbones that made the second burning, stabbing pain rip up his arm and across his chest. He felt his arm stiffening, he couldn’t bend it, he couldn’t bring the paper closer to his face, his mind couldn’t control his limbs, couldn’t make them work. Hugh felt himself falling, unable to stop himself. His outstretched hand, gripping the paper, crashing into the dying embers of the fire. He couldn’t move his hand away from the coals, the paper caught light and still he couldn’t move.

Freedom’s face burnt in front of him, the paper curling and browning as the flame crept slowly, slowly, towards his daughter’s face. Then they were both gone, small, black flecks of burnt paper fluttered from the fire. Hugh could see her, see her with her bangles and her beads standing at the pithead, her little parcel of clothes tucked under her arm. Dark, heavy slanting eyes, black hair — the gypsy girl and Freedom were one.

Gladys took over the funeral arrangements and buried Hugh. The whole village walked behind the coffin. The choir and the brass band sang and played their hearts out in their farewell to the Old Lion. No one even attempted to contact his daughter; Gladys had told them all that on the very night Hugh had died he had been with her, and had disowned Evelyne. He was ashamed of her and wouldn’t have wanted her at his burial. Gladys did concede to having Hugh buried alongside his dead, she couldn’t do otherwise. He was with his sons and his wife.

The small headstone bore just the family names and dates. All the fragility and hardships of life, the laughter, the love, all contained in the silent, sad grave. Summer was coming, and cornflowers were scattered across the fields beyond the cemetery, but no flowers lay on this plot of freshly dug earth, there had been no one who cared enough to place them there.

The owners of the mine had already taken over the house in Aldergrove Street. They made a half-hearted attempt at tracing Evelyne who was still unaware of her father’s death. It was as if there was nothing, nothing left of the Jones family but a list of names on a grave. How the Old Lion would have roared one last time with rage, but he lay with his sons, his wife, in silence.

Sir Charles had installed Freedom in one of the rooms in his vast suite at the hotel until they were ready to depart for London. They had been very busy, signing release papers, giving press interviews, settling accounts. They were now ready to leave Cardiff first thing in the morning, and Sir Charles had arranged a small dinner.

Freedom had not spoken to Evelyne since the trial, even to thank her. He had asked about her many times, but was always dissuaded from calling on her personally.

‘Wouldn’t look right, Freedom, remember how they questioned your relationship with her in the courtroom, I don’t want you ever to be seen together, is that clear? You will be able to thank her at dinner before we leave, that will have to suffice.’

When he was not being led around by Sir Charles, Freedom sat alone in his small servant’s room. He was free, but he wondered if he had simply exchanged one cell for another; his life, he knew, was no longer his own. It had been accepted without question that he would accompany Sir Charles when he returned to London. He would miss his people, miss his life, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Evelyne had dressed and changed for the dinner. She wore the dress Sir Charles had bought for her, the green ribbons in her hair, but the diamond and emerald necklace had been returned to the jeweller’s. She had been just about to leave her suite when the telephone rang. The receptionist had been trying to get a call through to the village post office for her. Evelyne had tried so many times, and had asked them to keep trying, but the line was always busy. It was the only one in the village apart from the doctor’s and the police station.

She ran to the phone, excited, she wanted to hear her Da’s voice, knew he would make everything all right, she had decided to go home.

Sir Charles was flushed, his familiar laugh filled the room, and the champagne flowed freely. He congratulated Ed and Miss Freda, but he couldn’t help thinking that Ed was making a mistake. As sweet as Miss Freda was, to Sir Charles’ critical eye she was a bit of an ‘old boiler’. Ed seemed overjoyed so Sir Charles assured him that of course there would be a place for Miss Freda on the estate.

Lady Primrose and David arrived. The fact that he had ‘spoken up’ for the gypsy had given David a new social standing. Society admired him for it, as they did Lord Frederick who was also expected. Sir Charles smiled to himself. No one would ever know how he had twisted their arms.

Lord Freddy arrived with a magnum of champagne. They had been photographed in the hotel lobby and Freddy had given a rousing speech about ‘British Justice’. He enjoyed the limelight, and he shook Freedom’s hand, congratulating him.