The Legacy (48 page)

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.

‘You won’t recognize ‘im, Freda, ‘e looks like a toff an’ ‘e’s actin’ like one, out every night gallivantin’ around the town, showin’ ‘imself off to everybody. He should be trainin’, night an’ day. You don’t see this Micky out in the clubs, no way, he’ll be trainin’ mornin’, noon an’ night.’

Freda made all the right noises and bided her time. She didn’t like to mention Evelyne now.

‘I’m worried, Freda, see, I know ‘is Lordship, next minute the lad’ll believe in ‘is own publicity, believe that Sir’s ‘is closest friend, but if ‘e loses he won’t see ‘im fer dust, an’ ‘e’ll lose, Freda, mark my words ‘e’ll lose, ‘e can’t go on like this. I been round three times an’ ‘e’s still in bed at twelve o’clock, him what was out at the crack of dawn at The Grange.’

Patting his hand and kissing his cheek, Freda assured him that she would have a word with Freedom when she saw him.

‘You’ll need an appointment, Freda, see if ‘e can’t fit you in between ‘is barber an’ ‘is tailor.’

Often at night Freedom would walk along Jermyn Street and cross into St James’s Park. Climbing over the railings he would run silently round and round, or sit for hours staring at the sleeping pelicans. Then when he had exhausted himself he would return to Jermyn Street. The running eased his restlessness, his feeling of being cooped up, of being on display, a fairground amusement. The women who pawed him only made him long for his Evie, and the pain inside him grew worse and worse instead of easing, but he said nothing, told no one.

Dewhurst woke Freedom to say that Mr Meadows and his wife had called, and would return later that afternoon for tea. Then he ran Freedom’s bath and began to lay out his clothes to wear for luncheon.

Mrs Harris could tell something was up, Evie was as bright as a button. She had also washed her hair and let out her best coat. She kept on asking how she looked, did she look ugly?

‘Lord love us, gel, there’s nothing more beautiful than a woman with a baby in her, you got a glow … are you off visitin’?’

Evelyne gave a tiny smile.

‘Well, you tell ‘im from me, ducks, he’s got a special woman, you go to him, bring ‘im back for supper an’ all, go on wiv you, you’ve waited long enough as it is …’

Evelyne caught the tram into London’s West End. Winter was coming on fast, and she hugged her coat around her. She got off the tram outside the big store in Piccadilly, Swan and Edgar. The windows were all lit up, and one of them was filled with baby clothes and cradles. She peered into the brighdy lit window. Such beautiful things, the toys, the clothes. She couldn’t move away, she found herself smiling with pleasure, with excitement at the thought of seeing Freedom again. She could visualize him so clearly, in his old cap and baggy trousers, running across the fields, and she couldn’t understand why she was crying, it was so foolish of her, and in a public place, too.

She bathed her face and checked her appearance in the ladies’ powder room inside the store, then nervously enquired the way to Jermyn Street. She was surprised to find it in the heart of the West End, having expected it to be a tram journey away. She was directed across Piccadilly, past a very fashionable shop, and down a small alley alongside a church. So this was where Freedom was staying. Evelyne stood in Jermyn Street taking in the rows of small shops selling soap, the tailors, the barbers.

Freedom stepped down from the motorcar and held out his hand to help two women from the back of the car. Evelyne could hardly believe her eyes, was it Freedom? She inched further forward, trying to see round the open door of the car. He was wearing a long, charcoal-grey overcoat, with a wide fur collar slightly turned up around his neck, and a white silk scarf. He laughed, throwing his head back, as one of the women pulled at the scarf and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

Dodging through the shoppers, Evelyne huddled in a doorway and watched as he held out first one arm, then the other, for the women to take. They fought for his attention. Being so tall he had to bend down to listen to what one of them had to say, and she took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. Evelyne gasped and stepped forward for a better view, then dodged quickly back as the three moved towards the building. A uniformed doorman stepped out and doffed his cap to them, holding the door open wide. As they went inside and the glittering doors closed behind them, Evelyne ran the few yards to the entrance, and peered through the doors in time to see them standing by a lift.

Freedom pressed the lift button. His head was aching from drinking too much champagne, but Dewhurst would have coffee ready. He was supposed to be training, but he would make up for it in the morning. As the lift gates opened he had a strange tingling sensation like an icy hand down his spine, and he whipped round, his scarf flying, ran to the doors and pulled them open. ‘Evie? Evie …?’

He stared along the crowded, fashionable street, then shook his head. He must be drunk. The door swung to and fro, and he returned to the women.

‘Oh, Freedom, we simply must take you to tea at the Ritz, say you will? Pretty please?’

He gave her a nasty, cold stare, gritted his teeth.

‘Pretty please, ger in, let me show you my Ritz!’

The two of them giggled at his awful mood, and they cuddled close to him, clinging to his arms. They felt like a pair of monkeys to him, they loved to scratch him with their long, red-painted fingernails. Still, they helped him to forget, forget Evie.

Ted Harris heard Evelyne come in, and opened the kitchen door.

‘Evie, that you, ducks? A cabbie came round wiv a parcel for you, here, see, cab all by itself, no one inside.’

Evelyne took the parcel but wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘You all right, ducks? Feelin’ poorly, are you?’

‘I’m fine, I’ll just rest, I’ll see to the children’s tea in a minute.’

Ted watched her hurry along the passage to her room. She was so pale, it worried him.

In the room Evelyne opened Miss Freda’s gifts. The tiny baby clothes, so perfectly made, were perhaps not in the colours she would have chosen, but they were beautiful. There was a little note in the parcel, but the writing was so bad that it took Evelyne ages to decipher what Freda had written.

‘In haste, darling, I will come and see you. God bless you and keep you well. Yours, Freda.’

Freda’s mouth seemed to be out of control, it kept dropping open as she sat and watched Freedom lounging on the sofa opposite her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, she had noticed that right at the start, as soon as they had arrived. He was being flippant and amusing, and from his shoes to his shining hair he was so well-groomed she would never have known him.

‘Lads reckon you’ll be having to start work first thing Monday, Freedom?’

Freda knew what Ed was going on about, but Freedom seemed to pay him little attention. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and asked Ed if he would go down to the teashop and order something for them.

An extremely disgruntled Ed departed, leaving Freedom and Freda alone together. They sat in silence for a minute, Freedom staring down at his shiny boots and Freda looking at the curtains, reckoning the material would cost at least four or five shillings a yard. He. wanted to talk to her, desperately needed to talk to someone, but he just didn’t know how to begin.

Eventually he rose to his feet and picked up his walking stick, tossed it in the air and then showed Freda the silver handle. ‘See, it’s a boxing glove, Miss Freda.’