Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘Oh, Ted, get on wiv yer, we’ll face that when it comes, an’ she can read an’ write, she can teach the little ‘uns their schoolin’ …’

Evelyne entered the hot, stuffy kitchen, and Ted gave her a wide smile, held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the family, gel, sit down, the missus’ll take right care of yer, an’ we’ll all fit in somehow.’

Evelyne had never known such friendliness, such warmth and love, she was once more in the bosom of a family. The seven Harris children were rowdy, scruffy, and as open and friendly as their parents. Baby Dora, just eighteen months old, was left in Evelyne’s care while Mrs Harris went out cleaning.

Exhausted from a long day’s hard work, Mrs Harris sat by the fire while Evelyne changed Dora’s nappy, cooing and making the baby gurgle with laughter. Evelyne’s pregnancy had advanced quickly, and Mrs Harris began to think the doctor could have miscalculated. Evelyne was a big girl, and looking at her now Mrs Harris reckoned the baby was probably more like seven months.

Evelyne had not said one word about the father, or what she would do when the child was born.

‘Will you keep the baby, Evie, ducks?’ Evelyne rocked little Dora in her arms. ‘Oh, yes, I couldn’t part with him, couldn’t even think about it.’

‘Well, it won’t be easy yer know, love, woman on ‘er own, you could have the baby adopted, there’s many wivout that would give it a good home.’

Evelyne pursed her lips. ‘There’ll be no one bringing my son up but me, I’ll find a way, I’ll get work.’

‘You never talk of the father, an’ you’re so sure it’s a boy yer carryin’ … does he know, lovey? About the baby?’

Whenever Mrs Harris mentioned the baby’s father she saw Evelyne withdraw into herself. She had grown used to Evelyne, the way she could clam up. ‘Do you love ‘im still? Is ‘e a society man, that what it is?’

Evelyne busied herself with Dora, but Mrs Harris battled on. ‘Only, a first-born is important to a man, an’ you seem so sure you’ve got a son inside you, d’yer not want ter contact ‘im?’

She watched Evelyne put little Dora into her crib, an old orange box, and kiss the child lovingly. Her heart went out to the girl, especially when she turned with tears in her eyes. ‘I just don’t know what to do, I don’t, but … feeling the baby inside me, well, I think more and more of him, but I just don’t know what to do …’

Evelyne did think of Freedom; every night before she slept she saw his face. Leaving him the way she had was cruel, she knew it, and the more she thought of the way she had treated him the more ashamed she was. She decided to write to Freda, tell her about the baby, but ask her not to say anything to Freedom. She would want to tell him herself.

As soon as Freda received Evelyne’s letter, she wrote back, knowing she shouldn’t, giving Freedom’s address in Jermyn Street. She also set about making baby clothes, but said nothing to Ed in her letter to him. She did as Evelyne asked, and kept the secret.

Evelyne opened Freda’s letter in the park while little Dora was asleep in the pram. She read that Freedom was waiting for acceptance to fight the British Heavyweight Champion, Micky Morgan, how he had beaten the Irish contender, and that they were all on tenterhooks waiting for the promoters to give the word.

Seeing his name in writing, Evelyne’s heart missed a beat. She knew she had been a fool. She touched her swollen belly, pictured Freedom’s face. She could almost laugh at herself, she who had wanted a better life was now living in the slums, without a job, and wheeling someone else’s baby around. Then she felt a bit guilty. Mrs Harris might be poor, but she was like a second mother to Evelyne. Poverty was all around them, but Evelyne had never said a word about her legacy. It had become an obsession with her, she scrimped and saved every farthing, and yet she had more money in the post office than the Harrises ever dreamed of. Originally it had been intended to pay for her own education, but now it would be for her son’s. She blushed with shame, but then argued with herself that she paid her way, she wasn’t taking the Harrises’ charity, just their love.

Every single head turned as Freedom entered the Cafe Royal. Women particularly noticed him, towering over every other man, even the elegant Sir Charles went unnoticed. All eyes focused on Freedom.

Their table was very prominent, chosen for that specific reason, just as the table at White’s had been the night before. The whispers spread as the diners recognized Sir Charles and knew that the handsome man with him must be his contender. The sporting sections had been full of coverage of the forthcoming British title fight, including Pat Murphy’s unprecedented knockout. The venue had been changed from the National Sporting Club to the Albert Hall, and the fight delayed for two months as posters and tickets were altered and reprinted. The pre-fight sales were already the biggest in English history, and it was rumoured that tickets were scarce now and were becoming a ‘must’. It was also rumoured that the Prince of Wales himself would be the guest of Sir Charles and Lord Livermore.

Much of the press coverage was down to Sir Charles negotiating long and hard with the promoters, who wanted to recoup their losses from the Pat Murphy knockout, which included billboards, posters, tickets, et cetera. With the larger showcase of the Albert Hall, the losses were soon made up. Sir Charles announced that a quarter of the profits would be given to charity, thus giving the match the seal of approval for society to be there.

The British Heavyweight Champion himself kept well out of the limelight. Sir Charles had no intention of keeping Freedom under wraps, and was betting heavily on the champion as well, intending to cover his losses should Freedom lose. He loved the fuss, the glamour and the attention, basked in it, and paraded Freedom as if he were a prize hunter on a rein. Freedom held up well, his dark eyes flashing, his smile captivating everyone. His romantic Romany origins were well publicized, and the women fluttered and pretended to swoon when he kissed their hands.

Tonight, at the Cafe Royal, Freedom had to stand for a round of applause as the band leader fnoved the spotlight on to Sir Charles’ table.

Poor Ed shuddered with embarrassment as Sir Charles’ generosity had not included him and he was self-conscious in his ill-fitting suits and old shirt. Realizing that the slight was intended, he stepped aside from now until the last stages of his training. He contented himself instead with reading about his golden boy in the society columns.

Freda was delighted when Ed sent for her to come to town. She had worked her fingers raw, sewing clothes for herself, hoping to be there on the big night. She set off from The Grange as excited as a child.

When Ed met her at the station she was a trifle disappointed to discover that they had to travel by public transport, and even further let down to find that they had to stay with Ed’s family, who were waiting for them with tea all ready on the table. Ed’s brother and his wife and kids greeted the new sister-in-law with suspicion at first, but then made her welcome. They were East Enders and, although Freda never said a word, they were obviously living from hand to mouth. She and Ed were given the front room to sleep in, and it was not until late evening that Freda had a chance to talk to Ed in privacy.

‘Well, darlink, how is Freedom? Will we all have tickets for the fight?’

Ed was hesitant at first, not as enthusiastic as she had expected. In truth, his nose was very much out of joint. Freedom seemed to have changed. Only a short while ago Ed couldn’t have got him to put a tie round his neck, and now he was never without one. Freedom had also been very cold and aloof with Ed, and that hurt him. He didn’t like to mention it to Freda, but she detected he was not too happy.