Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Freedom was in high spirits, despite a slight hangover. The evening’s drama appeared to have had little or no effect on him. He was unaware of how Sir Charles had settled everything, unaware how close he had been to losing his chance as a professional boxer.

Taking each boy in turn, even though he was only sparring, he gave such a good performance that Sir Charles gave Ed a wink, gestured for him to go to his side. Ed called out for the boxers to take a break, and he and Sir Charles waited for Freedom to join them.

Sir Charles leant on his silver-topped cane. ‘Appears you don’t think I’ve been pulling my weight? Not arranging a bout soon enough for you? Well, it’s not as easy as that, old chap. You’re unknown, a pit boxer, and they are, as you must be aware, two a penny. To gain a good rating in the game, why, you would more than likely have to take on twenty bouts before you could get any legitimate recognition.’

Freedom rolled his towel into a ball and chucked it aside. Sir Charles could smell him, like an animal, his sweating body was so close … he stepped back, just a fraction. ‘I have been masterminding a plan for you to hit the main circuits in one swoop. I have arranged for you to be the sparring partner for the present Irish Heavyweight Champion. He will be arriving in England shortly for an attempt at the British title.’

Freedom was about to let rip, Ed could see it, so he put out a restraining hand. Sir Charles continued, uninterrupted.

‘They will have all the sports writers there to see this Irish champion working out. And, Freedom, it will be up to you to show what you are worth — particularly when the press are in abundance — be your showcase, so to speak.’

‘Sparring partner? But I been workin’ for a professional bout, that’s what Ed — what you promised me from the word go, sparrin’ ain’t no professional bout.’

Sir Charles checked his gold fob watch and pocketed it before he spoke, making Freedom wait, hanging on his every word. Then he smiled, such a rare occurrence with Sir Charles that it was rather off-putting. His voice was almost sexual in its softness, its humour. ‘Ahhh, but what happens, old fella, if the sparring chappie knocks out the contender — leave a bit of a gap for the main event, wouldn’t you say?’

Ed gave Freedom a warning look to keep his mouth shut. ‘He’ll beat that Irish git wivout a doubt, if you’ll excuse the language, sir.’

Sir Charles strode to the barn doors, swinging his cane. ‘Let us hope he can. Ed, we leave for London first thing in the morning … jolly good bout, lads, well done.’

It was a few moments before it dawned, then Freedom gave Ed such a hug it winded him and he had to sit down on a bench to get his breath back.

Freda could hear Ed singing, ‘Oh, we got no bananas, we got no bananas today … tarrah!’

He opened the cottage door and threw his cloth cap in the air, then swung Freda round, wanting to dance, but she pushed him away. Behind him, Freedom bounded in, forgetting to stop so that he cracked his head on the top of the door, but he didn’t care, he was in such high spirits. ‘Get Evie for us, Freda, we got some news — we’re off to London and we got a fight.’

It was Freedom’s turn to twirl Freda round on her dumpy little legs. ‘I got her this, picked it on the way over. She was in a fair temper with me last night, so put it between the sheets … her book’s sheets, Freda, no need to look so shocked!’

Freedom laughed and tossed the cornflower in the air, then tucked it into Freda’s hand. She turned helpless eyes to Ed, but he was beaming from ear to ear. There on the table lay Evie’s letter. Freda held it out to Freedom, then let her hand drop. She had forgotten Freedom couldn’t read well enough yet. ‘Evie’s gone, Freedom, she left this morning … Here, she wrote to us all. She says she couldn’t come and say goodbye as … well, I don’t have to tell you, we’d all be crying. She wants to make her own way, better herself…’ Freda couldn’t go on, her face crumpled like a child’s and she sobbed.

Freedom went to her, held her gently in his arms and whispered to her, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’

Releasing her, he walked to the door like a man bereft. Ed tried to stop him leaving. ‘Now, don’t do nuffink you’ll regret, son, we go to London and …’

Like Freda, he couldn’t continue. Freedom gave Ed a heartbreaking look, then a strange, soft half-smile. He seemed so calm, his voice so soft and gentle.

‘We have a saying, if you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you it is yours, if it doesn’t, it never was …’

Freda opened her hand, and there was the cornflower. Freedom held her hand gently, then tucked the flower behind her ear. He smiled. ‘Evie’s favourite flower.’

Freda had never seen such open despair in a man’s eyes, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. She watched helplessly as he walked away.

‘I’ll go to him, go with him.’

‘No, Ed, leave him, leave him a while.’

From the cottage window they watched him walk, straightbacked, across the courtyard. There was no spring in his step now, no highstepping Romany saunter. As he reached the open fields he looked up and let out a single howl, like an animal caught in a trap. The cry chilled them both, the rooks screeched and flew from the trees like a black cloud, and then Freedom began to run, and run, until he was no more than a black spot on the horizon, as small as the birds he had disturbed.

ED became more expansive as the train pulled in to Victoria Station in London. He was getting back to his home territory, and he couldn’t wait to get Freedom ready to meet the Irish champion.

From Victoria Station, Ed and Freedom took a taxi to Lambert’s Gym in Bell Street, a run-down area of Soho. The city throbbed, noisy, crowded and dirty, and Freedom loathed it, was disgusted by it, but Ed was in his element, ‘Oh, it’s good to he back, you’ll love it ‘ere, Freedom, come on, down yer go, gym’s in the basement.’

The gym was alive with the thudding sounds from punchbags and ten boxers working out. The walls were covered with photographs and posters of famous boxers and bouts. Freedom looked around, feeling out of place in his suit and shirt. The boxers gave him only a cursory glance and carried on with what they were doing. Ed seemed to know everyone, waving across the gym, thumping a young boy on the shoulder.’ ‘Ello, son, how ya doin’? ‘Arry me boy, nice to see you, long time … Jimbo, you still at it, thought you retired …’

Ed passed through, beckoning Freedom to follow him, and they crossed the floor of the gym, skirted the ring in the centre and made their way to the small offices at the far end. Ed banged on the door and opened it, again gesturing for Freedom to follow.

‘Jack, I just got in, any chance of a word in your shell-like? Want you to meet me new lad.’

An ex-boxer himself, with cauliflower ears and a flattened splodge of a nose, Jack Lambert was now a promoter. He wore a shirt that was minus its collar and wide red braces, and he was rarely seen without a huge cigar sticking out of his mouth. Freedom and Ed followed him into his small office at the back of the gym.

Freedom was aware of being given the once-over by the cigar-smoking man. The puffy eyes stared hard, examining him from the top of his head down to his feet. Freedom shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor.

‘This your new lad then, Ed? He’s a big’un, isn’t he? He a half-caste, is he? Dark, isn’t he?’

Freedom opened his mouth to speak, but Ed shut him up with a quick look, and launched into a speech that had Freedom listening intently, hardly able to believe his ears. Ed told Jack that Freedom was a fresh’un, straight out of the booths, not had a professional fight, but they wanted to try him out for starters, he was just a gypsy lad.