The Legacy (71 page)

‘Edward, bring me up some hot water, I have to wash.’

He carried up the big kettle, poured the water into her bowl.

‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

He had a pot of tea ready for her in the kitchen, and two slices of buttered toast. She was dressed in her best clothes. ‘I’ll go to the police station, poor Alex must think we’ve forgotten him. We’ll have a lot to be getting on with, there’s everything to arrange for you to go up to Cambridge, and then we’ll need the best lawyer there is.’

Edward was stunned - she was as calm as ever, but when he went to kiss her she pushed him away. She didn’t touch his tea or the toast, just counted the change in her purse. Edward would never forget the way she looked at him, it released him, released him from her. Her eyes were filled with such loathing - as if he were no more than an animal. She never let him touch her again, never held him in her arms, and never spoke of Freedom. She even removed the photograph of Freedom from the mantelpiece, along with those of her two sons.

Evelyne buried Freedom, and the local people showed their love and respect for their dead champion, walking in silence behind the hearse. Ten highstepping men wearing dark pinstriped suits, bright neckerchiefs and gold earrings appeared as if from nowhere. Somehow news had reached them that their fighter was dead. They kept a few yards back from the rest of the mourners, their heads held high - arrogant, black-haired men.

When the ceremony was over, Evelyne remained beside the grave. There was an air of aloofness about her, an untouchable grief that made it difficult for her friends and neighbours to comfort her. Even Mrs Harris couldn’t take her in her arms. It was strange, but it was Jesse, who had brought the men from the clans, who stood alone with her when everyone else had gone. It was Jesse who sensed her need, her devastating loss. He held her gentiy, and she could smell the same musky oil that Freedom used to wear.

‘We burn our dead’s possessions so they take them with them, and in that way they rest and will not haunt the living.’ ,

‘They’ve already gone, Jesse, went in the Blitz.’

‘Have you nothing he were proud of? He’s a Prince, he cannot lie without a treasure, with no talisman.’

Evelyne remembered the necklace, how proud Freedom had been the day he gave it to her. She hesitated.

It was all she had left of him, all she had to remember the good times. Jesse seemed to know instinctively that there was something and his black eyes went darker than dark as he whispered,

‘He loved thee, woman, more’n ye may know, but he was the son of a dukkerin, his blood was royal. He has strong powers. No church, no service will give him peace. You bury the gold tonight, place it at the foot of the, cross and he’ll rest quiet.’

Evelyne knew now, more than ever, how much of his past Freedom had given up for her, how much of his life she knew nothing of, as if in death he had returned to the wild, returned to his people.

‘Will you sing that song for me. He loved it so.’

Jesse straightened his waistcoat, and in a clear voice that rang out across the graveyard, he sang,

Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen, Can you chin the cosh …

Evelyne stared at her reflection, her face worn and pale, her naked shoulders as white as her shift. She carefully clasped on the gold and pearl necklace and then each earring. She searched her own face, her own sad eyes for the past, eyes brimming with glistening tears; they once again sparkled with youth and vitality. In the half-light of the small bedside lamp she was sure, sure he had entered the room. A small china figure was placed in front of the lamp and, caught at that moment, held in the beam of the light, it formed a lifesize shadow. Evelyne carefully inched the tiny figure forward until the shadow seemed to stand over her bed. She then lay down and lifted her arms and the shadow kissed and enveloped her, and she knew he would never leave her.

The police constable took Alex a mug of hot tea. The boy had hardly had a bit of food since his arrest. As the key turned in the lock, Alex looked up with a pitiful expression of expectancy on his face.

‘Here, lad, get this down you, you’ll feel better for it.’

Alex’s hands shook as he cupped the tin mug. His teeth chattered against the rim, and his face crumpled. The constable felt sorry for him, and sat down on the bunk. ‘He was buried today. Streets of people walked behind him to say goodbye. They gave him a champion’s …’

He broke off to grab the mug from Alex. He had begun sobbing, his whole body shaking, and he was spilling the scalding tea on himself. All night he sobbed for his father, until he was exhausted, totally drained. The police officers heaved sighs of relief when at last the boy in their charge was silent.

Edward walked across the cobbled courtyard towards the main hall. Hundreds of black-gowned students milled around, shouting and calling to each other, joyously reunited with old pals. Cycles wobbled past, bells rang and everywhere the eye fell there were students. The excitement was contagious and exhilarating, even for the nervous first-timers, the freshmen who looked shyly to one another with small embarrassed smiles. Edward wanted to touch the stone of the walls, wanted to get down on his knees to kiss the cobbled quadrangle, he still could not quite believe he was here, he had done it, he was at Cambridge. He could not contain the feeling of achievement. It was bubbling inside him, bursting from his brain. He had made it. As he crossed the threshold into the main hall for his first assembly, he noticed the stone was worn, curving at the centre from hundreds of years and thousands of students’ hurried steps. Now it was his turn, his time, and he would use every second, every moment. Edward knew that there would be many students who could match him academically, but doubted if anyone, bar himself, would have committed murder to cross this worn, hallowed step. This would be one accomplishment he would never think or speak of; if he did it would destroy him.

As Edward crossed the threshold into his new life he left behind the East End, his mother and his brother. He could not lose or forget as easily the last image of his father. This memory, like a clearly painted picture, was not of when he had seen his dead father cradled in his mother’s arms, it was not of when he had turned to threaten him, it was not even of the smile he had on his face when Edward had felt the knife cut into his heart. The image, the clear, brilliantly painted picture that swept into his dreams and often into his waking hours, was of a man with flowing black hair - a handsome wild man with black angry eyes. The man was Freedom holding his bare knuckled fist up ready to fight, Freedom, the fighter from Devil’s Pit, Freedom alive in the days before Edward had even been born, before he had married Evelyne.

Alex would dream of him too, and in his dream was a surreal mountainside where the grass grew green, the sky was a brilliant blue and the sun sparkled, glinting rainbow colours like a child’s picture story book.

Alex saw himself, running towards the peak of the mountain. There came a thunder of hooves, ringing and echoing around the mountainside, and still he ran on, breathing the sweet, clean air as he jumped for joy …

Breaking through clouds with his raised hooves came a black, shining stallion. Astride him sat a man of magical ethereal beauty. A wild man, with flowing, blue-black hair, barechested, at one with the beast. Alex lifted his arms, crying, ‘Don’t go! Don’t go!’ But the rider passed him by, as if leaping over the very mountain. The thunder of hooves merged into a thunderclap, and the clouds closed like a grey curtain. Alex screamed, struggling to run those last few yards up the mountain, ‘Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!’

He was too late, he was too tired. He collapsed to the ground, and from the earth came the last, faint sounds of the still-galloping horse, fainter, fainter … The skies opened and rain began to fall.

Alex woke, drenched in his own sweat, his body stiff and cold. He pulled the worn blanket around his aching body and closed his eyes again, hoping to conjure up one more glimpse of the rider. Unable to sleep, he comforted himself with the thought that one day he would reach the top of the mountain.

Romany Curse

He must lie with his treasures, be they tin or gold,

Resting in finery, his back to the soil.

One wheel of his vargon must light up with fire,

In the flame is his evil, his pain and his soul.

But beware of his taelizman (talisman) carved out of

stone, If not in his palm, then a curse is foretold.

For who steals the charm of this dukkerin’s son,

Will walk in his shadow, bleed with his blood,

Cry loud with his anguish and suffer his pain.

His unquiet spirit will rise up again,

His footsteps will echo unseen on the ground

Until the curse is fulfilled, his talisman found.

TlHE talisman follows the lives of the two brothers: Edward’s meteoric rise to vast wealth, Alex’s prison sentence and release. To ensure they were never to forget their origins, Edward took from his mother’s grave the necklace his father had given to her the night he had claimed his championship belt. He melted the gold to make two medallions, and had their names inscribed, so they would never forget. Unknowingly he had committed a Romany sin. By opening the grave he had taken from his father and his mother their treasure. He had taken his father’s life, and now he ransacked his soul, ignorant of the old customs and the curses. Edward evoked the unquiet dead.

The Talisman introduces the brothers’ women, their wives and their children, all of them inexplicably bound by ghosts from the past. The murder of their’ father, Freedom Stubbs, the Champion fighter, constantly draws them back to their Romany origins … they have his blood in their veins, and his death on their consciences. They have inherited the Romany second sight and, as they reach a phenomenally high pinnacle of both material wealth and power, attained deviously and violently, one of them must now pay the debt. One must pay at last for the murder. It is the law of the Romanies, be it sons or daughters, wives or mothers, fathers or brothers, a debt must be paid. A tear for a tear, a heart for a heart, blood to blood, soul to soul …

THE END