The Legacy (27 page)

Rawnie flicked open the razor-sharp knife and cut through the air. She laughed delightedly at Evelyne’s shocked face, then she turned in one sweeping move, her voice trilled ‘Kushti rardi, Evelyne’, and she was gone.

Evelyne called after her, but the girl didn’t turn back. She heard another roar of men’s voices, cheering in unison and ran towards Devil’s Pit, hoping to God she could get there before her father.

Gladys hammered on the post office door, looking up at the windows and calling for Ben Rees, the postman. His wife opened a window and called down that they were all at the fair, Gladys shouted that she had to use their telephone to call the police. Hysterical, she screamed that the killer, Freedom Stubbs, was up at Devil’s Pit.

By the time Gladys had got through to the police a group of women had gathered outside the post office. In murmurs and whispers they passed the name of Freedom Stubbs among them. Lizzie-Ann, always one to be in on anything going on, came rushing up. The garbled story gained detail. Evelyne Jones knew the killer, he was one of the gyppos, and he was boxing up at Devil’s Pit.

‘Let’s get up there and warn the menfolk. We’ll get the bugger even if the law can’t.’

Rolling pins were hastily collected, and one woman who had armed herself with a heavy frying pan swung it around, saying she’d take first crack at the vermin. Lizzie-Ann fuelled their rising tempers, telling them that Evelyne Jones knew more than she let on. Schoolmistress she may be, but why hadn’t she shown anyone what the newspapers said? She’d concealed evidence, that’s what she’d done. Half the women were illiterate and would never have read the papers anyway, but, egged on by Lizzie-Ann’s bitterness towards Evelyne, they went on the march, fists clenched and rolling pins at the ready, heading for the Devil’s Pit.

Mr Beshaley was beside himself, there was not a soul at the station, even to collect his ticket. There wasn’t a horse or a cart, nothing in sight, and Devil’s Pit was a good five miles up the mountainside.

Doc Clock chugged by in his precious motor. He’d been up at Mrs Morgan’s on an emergency call, only to discover it was her dog that was ailing. The poor animal was very old and couldn’t understand that with the strike on Mrs Morgan didn’t have the money to put in the purse for him to take to the butcher. He was turning nasty, hanging on like grim death to the shopping bag and biting anyone who tried to take it from him. Doc Clock’s thumb was bandaged to prove it.

As if that wasn’t enough, the Doc was confronted by a lunatic in a dreadful suit who demanded to be driven to Devil’s Pit. Beshaley took out his fob watch and looked in desperation at the Doc. ‘The fight, I’ve got to get up there to see the fight,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you whatever you ask - anything - it’s a matter of extreme urgency, sir, I beg you.’

Doc Clock tooted his horn as he rounded a curve on the narrow mountain track, and smiled to himself. At long last he’d got a watch on the end of his chain. Beshaley held on grimly as the old motor bounced and swerved along the unlit track. Twice he thought they’d go over the edge, but the motor somehow weaved its way back to the centre. They could hear the cheering and shouting, and Beshaley stood up, banging on the windscreen, and bellowed for the Doc to go faster.

Evelyne stood on tiptoe at the back of the screaming crowd, but she couldn’t even see the men fighting. She pushed her way through the crowd and, spotting Jesse, made her way towards him.

‘Jesse … Jesse? Do you remember me? … Jesse?’

He shrank away from her, wondering if she’d seen him lift the man’s wallet. His eyes narrowed and he turned to dart back into the crowd, but Evelyne caught his sleeve, and then he recognized her by her red hair tumbling down from her schoolmistress’s bun. She was Freedom’s paleface friend. Jesse could barely hear what she had to say over the roar of the crowd, but when he understood they weaved and elbowed their way through the men to the opposite side of the makeshift boxing ring where the gypsy men watched the fight together. He squeezed his way among them, cupping his hand to their ears and whispering, and they passed the message on.

Evelyne looked at the ring and shuddered. Freedom and Taffy were in the centre, Taffy bleeding badly from a cut below his eye. Jesse moved like a dart, in and out between the men, then he returned to her side. ‘The wagon’s yonder, git outta here.’

He slipped away so fast that Evelyne had no time to grab his arm, and the gypsies were quietly leaving, one by one. The combined noise of the waterfall and the men’s voices was deafening, and across the ring she could see fists raised as the miners yelled, ‘Take the man out, Tarry!’ Over their heads she could see her father, way over on the far side, shoving his way towards the ring. His face was set, he looked vicious, and he too was shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words.

The bell clanged for the end of the round, and Freedom walked abruptly to his corner and sat down, snorting through his gumshield. He was surprised Jimmy One-Eye didn’t take it out of his mouth, and where was the water? Then Jimmy leaned over and cupped his hand to Freedom’s ear. ‘Go down, mun, first punch go down, they know who you are, all hell’s gonna be let loose - police’ll be here, we’re gonna have to do a runner.’

Hugh was close to the side of the ring, pointing at Freedom and yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Killer! Killer!’

The men around him tried to hear what he was saying and Evelyne could see him making gestures, slicing his hand across his throat and pointing again to Freedom.

Taffy’s corner men worked hard, rubbing the big man down, plastering Vaseline over his swelling face. Taffy was heaving for breath and trying to listen to his trainer’s instructions. He gasped with pain as they painted his cut then flapped their hands and blew to dry the paint. It was smarting so badly his eyes were watering, but he could have been weeping. His hopes of the Heavyweight Championship were dimming - he couldn’t even get near the bastard.

The bell clanged, and Freedom was up on his feet before the clapper was still. He looked fresh, his breathing under control but his body glistening with sweat. Taffy lumbered into the centre and hunched up, somehow he knew he was going to get it, that was it, he knew it was coming, but he wasn’t going to let the gyppo get him down easily.

Freedom opened up his defences and looked as if he’d walked into the right uppercut. Over he went, falling back against the ropes, which sagged under him. The crowd went berserk and Taffy gazed in astonishment at the slumped body, the ref. bending over him, counting and waving his arms. The crowd joined in as he counted.

‘One … two … three … four …’

Beshaley ran from the Doc’s car just in time to see Freedom take the final punch. He slumped against the rocks, feeling as if he himself had been hit, winded. Through the celebrating crowd he could make out the tall figure of Sir Charles and was about to push forward to talk to him when he saw Taffy’s manager. Sir Charles was shaking his hand, congratulating him.

Doc Clock panted over to Beshaley, muttering that nobody had told him about any fight. Beshaley had paled visibly, and the Doc was concerned, but he was bodily moved aside by a group of women. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘what is the world coming to when women are watching boxing matches?’ He was walloped on the back with a frying pan, and spun round.

‘Oh, sorry, bach, didn’t recognize you!’ said the woman.

Taffy was riding high on the shoulders of two miners, and the makeshift ring was swarming with men, dancing and yelling, while Hugh Jones stood in the centre, screaming for quiet, his arms waving and his face bright red with fury. ‘Quiet… Quiet… Listen to me, will you listen to me!’

Freedom went inside the wagon while Jesse organized the hitching of the horses. Outside the wagon the noise of the men was diminishing, and one voice was raised high above the rest, a voice screaming, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The wagon rocked as the horse was backed into the shafts. Hugh Jones was slowly getting the men to listen, despite the added din of the high-pitched screams of the women who had just arrived. ‘The police couldn’t find him and they been lookin’, we got him right here, here amongst us … Freedom Stubbs killed Willie, slit his throat, are we gonna let him get away with it?’

Evelyne put her hands over her ears to shut out her father’s voice. She wanted to turn and run - run away from the madness echoing round the mountain like the Devil himself. She stood up and tried to get to her father’s side.

‘Turn the wagon over, get him out, get him out!’ Evelyne was within feet of her father, screaming at him to stop, but a clod of earth flew through the air, narrowly missing her head.

‘Tell us what you know, Bitch! Bitch!’ Frying pans and rolling pins thudded down on heads, the women were screaming and pointing at Evelyne. A man grabbed Evelyne from behind and held her arms. ‘This is the one, she’s known all along …’

Now Hugh was fighting to get to his daughter. Evelyne pulled her arms free and lashed out at her father with her fist.

Miners swarmed around the heavy wagon, heaving together to overturn it. The horse reared and kicked, striking a man on the side of his head. The wagon rolled forward, heading directly into the crowd around Hugh and Evelyne, and the men and women sprang away in fear for their lives.

Jesse whipped up the horse and lashed out at a man who tried to bring him down from the wagon. As they careered through the crowd, Freedom leaned out of the back and grabbed Evelyne by the waist. She tried to fight him off, but she was lifted off her feet and hauled on board as the wagon bounced and rumbled through the crowd.

HUGH stood in the ring, or what was left of it, the ropes trailing on the ground. His initial fury had subsided, he knew he had been wrong, but he couldn’t understand his daughter - his own daughter had raised her fist to him in front of the whole village. He stood still, shaking. What in God’s name had got into her? Suddenly he took off after the mob chasing the wagon.

Evelyne clung for dear life to the side of the wagon, terrified. Behind them* the mob followed, running down the mountain. Freedom yelled to Jesse to keep clear of the camp, lead the madmen away from their people, take to the main roads. Evelyne wept, begged to be let out, but Freedom ignored her and clambered up beside Jesse. The wagon rolled from side to side as the dirt track wound and curved. The running figures were now a good distance behind them. They passed the entrance to the campsite, and Jesse handed the reins to Freedom. He jumped down as Freedom whipped the horse faster, leading the mob away from the camp. They could see that the camp was already packed up, the caravans in line, set to move out. Alone in the back of the wagon, Evelyne was bruised and battered against the sides, and still she held on.

The sound of the wheels clattering on cobbles told Evelyne they had arrived in the village. The horse slowed its frantic pace and stopped.

‘Stop in the name of the law, now get down, hands above your head, come on, you vermin, do like we say, get down.’

The wagon’s flap was pulled open and a policeman who looked inside shouted that there was a woman on board. At the same time Evelyne heard a voice asking, ‘You the gyppo they call Freedom Stubbs?’

They were already putting the handcuffs on him by the time she stepped down. He made no effort to escape, did nothing to stop them handcuffing him, and said not one word. They hauled him roughly towards the police van, and even though he made no effort to evade arrest, one of the policemen brought his truncheon down hard on the back of his neck. He slumped forward, and they dragged him like an animal into the cage at the back of the van, locking and bolting it just in time as the mob appeared at the top of the village street.

The men and women were quieter now and, seeing the uniformed police encircling the van with truncheons at the ready, they kept their distance. ‘Keep on walking now, come along, get back to your homes, the show’s over. Come along now, keep walking, everybody keep walking.’

Slowly, they moved in groups past the police van, their interest directed first at the van, then at Evelyne. The women shot foul looks at her, then turned their faces away.

Hugh walked to his daughter’s side and laid his hand on her arm.

‘Don’t touch me, this is your doing, this is down to you; Hugh Jones, I’d have thought you had more sense.’

Lizzie-Ann passed by and heard Evelyne’s words, and muttered an abusive, bitter, ‘gyppo lover’. The other women nearby picked up the phrase, murmuring quietly but clearly as they passed the wagon, ‘gyppo woman, gyppo lover.’

Hugh stood still, head bowed, and Gladys whimpered and slunk to his side. The police van was cranked up and the engine chugged into life; then it headed for the police station with Evan Evans, flushed and apologetic, hurrying alongside.

Evelyne walked, head held high, back to Aldergrove Street. She knew they were all looking at her, talking about her, and she kept her eyes straight ahead. She was comforted by the thought that behind them all the caravans would be silently moving out, at least they had not torn the campsite apart.

Hugh wanted Gladys gone; he wanted to talk in private with Evelyne, but Gladys clung to his arm. He sat her down, then folded his arms, staring hard at Evelyne. She met his gaze head on, defiant.

‘Now, Evie, out with it, we have a right to know.’

In a quiet, dead voice, Evelyne told them the truth.

‘I was at a boxing match in Cardiff, remember, Da, the time I went by myself? I don’t want to go into the details of how I got there, but I went to a boxing fair. There was a riot, and I was leaving, but I had to go back inside the tent for my bag, I’d lost my handbag.’

Gladys stood up and demanded to know what on earth this had to do with Willie’s murder. Evelyne pushed her down and leaned over her.

‘Because when I went back I saw a poor gypsy girl being raped, not by one but by four lads. An’ they’d worse than raped her, they’d taken a bench leg to her.’

Gladys screeched at the top of her voice, ‘You sayin’ Willie had something to do with it?’

‘I saw him, he was on top of the girl… it was me that pulled him off by his hair, and I’d swear to it on the Bible, you want me to swear it on the Bible?’