Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Freedom already had Murphy sitting up, leaning against his shoulder. Murphy’s right eye was streaming blood, his face blotchy red and his lip cracked. He was dazed, but even in that condition he managed a joke, ‘Well I’ll be buggered, I’ve been beaten at me own game.’

He looked helplessly at O’Keefe, beseeching him to get him out somehow. Freedom helped the big man to his feet, he wanted to tell him he was sorry, but O’Keefe pushed him away with tears streaming down his face, and helped his man out of the ring, ‘You bastard, Ed Meadows, you bastard!’

It was Murphy who broke up what looked as if it could become an ugly situation. He held his hand up and looked to Freedom. ‘There’s your champion, good luck, son, you certainly took all o’mine!’

Murphy’s legs buckled beneath him and he was carried into the dressing room. The press surrounded Freedom.

Jack looked stunned, he stared at the departing group carrying poor Murphy out, then back to Freedom in the ring. He said it to no one in particular, to the air.

‘I ain’t ever seen a punch like that, not ever, Gawd almighty, what a punch.’

Sir Charles swung into motion, the press had a field day, and Freedom was accepted as a contender for the British Heavyweight title. He was going to make sure his champion would be totally acceptable both socially and in the ring.

Freedom was removed from Ed’s lodgings and installed in Sir Charles’ small bachelor flat in Jermyn Street. He wanted to dress Freedom in the finest before he was taken to the Pelican Club or White’s. Freedom went to Mr Poole, the famous tailor, for his sporting set, then to the equally famous trio of high priests of fashion — Mr Cundy, the general manager of the store, who waited on his every whim, Mr Dents, in the coat department, and Mr Allen, responsible for waistcoats and trousers. Mr Allen had to measure Freedom’s inside leg twice as he couldn’t quite believe how long it was, and the shirtmaker tutted and muttered as he measured and remeasured Freedom’s arms and neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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