Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘Just get me teeth, twenty-five shillings’ worth there, mate.’

But the teeth were forgotten as the bell clanged for round nine.

Ed was mopping his brow with the sponge, his shirt drenched, his bright red braces sticking to him.

‘Come on lad, this is it, go for it. Go for it!’. Micky was tough and there was no way he was going to go down easily. He knew he was still ahead on points, and he took a breather, keeping on the move, letting Freedom do all the chasing.

‘Fight, mun, go on, stop doing the dance, mun,

Having worked so hard in the earlier rounds, Micky was warned three times by the ref for holding. Round nine went to Freedom, and the ref went over to Micky’s corner in the break. His men grouped tightly around him, swearing that everything was all right, and the ref had to pry their pressing hands from Micky’s cut. Satisfied that the blood had been stemmed, he gave the signal for the fight to continue.

‘It’s yours, Freedom, keep on his eye, it’s split like an orange, hear me, get his eye.’

Round ten, and Freedom was on his feet before the bell rang. The crowd was going crazy, and fights were breaking out as the people behind tried to make those in the ringside seats sit down so their view would not be blocked.

Freedom swigged the water and tried to get his breath as Ed flapped with the towel. ‘I’m hitting him with all I’ve got, Ed, and he’s still on his feet.’

Ed massaged him and kept up a steady flow of instructions. He knew Freedom was exhausted, Micky was holding on to him at every opportunity. Freedom’s face was red, but there was no broken skin, and not even a hint of puffiness around the eyes.

‘You got the Prince standin’ up shouting for yer in that last round, take him this round, lad, you know you can.’

Freedom smiled and said that if he won this round his son would be called Edward. Again Ed felt a chill through his sweating body, and he shuddered. Freedom talked as if he knew something Ed didn’t, but the bell clanged and he had to hurry down from the ring.

Micky got a second wind, God knows from where, and lambasted Freedom. Micky’s nose was bleeding and his eye was swollen so he couldn’t see … He was flaying the air, coming back for a right hook when the jab caught him, right on the jaw, clean-cut, like steel.

Micky crashed to the canvas, tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He clung to the ropes, trying to haul himself up, but again his legs gave way.

‘Eight… nine … ten!’

Freedom Stubbs was the British Heavyweight Boxing Champion.

THE local people took their new neighbours to their hearts, and Freedom became their hero. On the night he and Ed went to the Sporting Club dinner to collect the championship belt and the purse, everyone was at the door. The kids asked for his autograph, they wanted it five or six times to sell copies at school. With Edward in her arms, Evelyne waved them off like the rest. Freedom was dressed up, with a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. The Christmas lights were twinkling and the few houses that could afford them already had trees in their windows.

When they arrived at the Sporting Club, the porters stopped them as they were about to hand their coats to the cloakroom attendant, and slowly checked their names in a register. Ed patted Freedom’s shoulder, ‘He’s the champion, mate, what’s the hold-up?’

Several evening-suited gents passing through the lobby looked curiously at them while they waited. The porter eventually gestured for Ed to go through, then he bent down beneath his desk and drew out a brown paper package which he handed to Freedom. ‘I’m sorry, sir, this is for you, I can’t let you go in.’

Ed, of course, puffed and huffed, said there must be some mistake, but the parcel contained the championship belt. In a temper Ed told Freedom to wait, there had to have been some mistake.

The dining room was already crowded with sporting gentlemen, drinking. Sir Charles was sitting at the top table with Lord Lonsdale himself, who had embarked on one of his long, rambling tales. The guests listened attentively as His Lordship regaled them with the story of when he had met Rasputin in Russia. Most of them had heard it many times, but the story had grown to outrageous proportions. When Sir Charles saw Ed he gestured with his arms, his cigar clamped between his teeth, and excused himself. Rising from the table he stared coldly as Ed approached him.

‘I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but there must have been some mistake, they won’t allow Freedom into the club.’

Sir Charles was totally unruffled and told Ed that in his opinion — and in the opinion of most of the other gentlemen present — Freedom had not acted in a sporting manner. He had insulted the Prince by not appearing at the Cafe Royal on the night of the championship. Ed could not believe his ears — he stared, speechless, and when Sir Charles offered him a chair he refused it and turned to walk out. Sir Charles tapped him on the shoulder, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you were to commence training at The Grange during Christmas. I’ve arranged suitable accommodation.’

Tight-lipped and burning with anger, Ed murmured that he would relay the message to Freedom. He knew it was no message, it was an order, and he held his back very straight as he walked out through the tables full of so-called gentlemen.

He found Freedom standing outside in the snow, his prize belt stuffed in his pocket. Ed didn’t know how to tell him, but he didn’t have to. Freedom took one look at his face and began to walk along the pavement, ‘I don’t want anyone to know about this, Ed, keep it between us. It’s Christmas, the markets are open, we’ll go and get a few things, make it a celebration to remember.’

Near tears, Ed grinned at him, and fell into step beside his champion. He knew Freedom would not forget this treatment; he had that strange look on his face, the mask had dropped into place. Even though Ed tried to tell him it didn’t matter, he knew that the insult had been taken to heart.

The market was full of last-minute Christmas shoppers and the yell of the thronging traders flogging their wares. Birds were strung up outside the butchers’ shops, chilled by the snow. A man selling Christmas decorations recognized Freedom and cries of ‘Champion!’ went round the market. Freedom was a celebrity, and the warmth of their voices and good wishes lifted his gloom.

He stopped at a pet stall and examined the pigeons, bought one in a proper cage, then grinned at Ed, ‘Get someone to take this over to that little lad from the lodgin’s, tell him Father Christmas sent it.’

Freedom walked down the street followed by a costermonger’s barrow piled so high with parcels the donkey could scarcely pull it. Up on top of the cart was a cradle and there were so many toys that Freedom kept stopping and handing them out to children running alongside. He had bought a table and chairs, lamps, and so much food he could have fed the whole street.

Evelyne stood at the bedroom window and stared at the strange-looking carnival as it came to a halt before the house. Freedom called up to her to look, and he stood grinning from ear to ear, his arms open wide. Ed, well-oiled and with whisky bottles sticking out of his pockets, reeled around with the lamplighter, singing at the top of his voice.

Evelyne watched from the stairs as the furniture was hauled in. It seemed there were people everywhere, yelling instructions on where to put everything, and the baby started screaming. It gave Evelyne a splitting headache. Freedom carried the cradle upstairs — it was made of carved wood with angels on each side. Evelyne had longed for the cradle from Swan and Edgar, with its modern mattress and frilled drapes. This was so old-fashioned. ‘ ‘Put him in, gel, come along, let’s have him.’