The Legacy Read online

  ‘Freedom, the Romany gypsy prince … FREEDOM!’

  Again no one could hear any details over the crowd’s bellowing, and cries of ‘Boooo … Booooo …’ swamped the tent as Freedom appeared. He bent low, entered the ring, and went straight to his corner. He stood head and shoulders above the men in his corner until he sat on his little stool, and then they closed ranks round him and he couldn’t be seen.

  A burly man in a white shirt entered the ring with a white towel over his arm. He held up the towel in one hand, a stopwatch in the other. The man in the checkered suit collapsed out of the ring to sit, hugging his loud hailer, in a state of total exhaustion.

  The referee waved his towel a few more times, then turned gesturing to both boxers to come out of their corners. Hammer bounced off the ropes and up went his gloved hands as he waved to the crowd. The roars of approval and disapproval came in earshattering waves. The referee gestured to Freedom to come forward, and as he walked slowly towards Hammer the boos and hisses grew even louder. The two men touched gloves, and whatever the referee said went unheard as the boxers returned to their corners.

  Hammer hung on the ropes again, screaming that he would take the gyppo out in three rounds,’Three, three, not-a-one, not-a-two, but three…’ The crowd roared back, ‘ Three, three, three.” The tent felt as if it would collapse as they stamped their feet in unison.

  The betting rose to fever pitch before the fight could commence, and more money passed over more heads in cloth caps. The fight was held up again as someone removed a passing cloth cap and tried to take the cash, provoking yet another fight.

  A small, balding man fought his way to the ringside and held up a large school bell, which he rang once at Hammer and then once at Freedom. Holding the bell high above the head for the spectators to see, he clanged it again and the fight began. The crowd went quiet as the two fighters moved closer, their corners slipping out of the ring to hang on the corner ropes. High up in the tent two men had crawled like monkeys along the ropes to get a better view.

  Rawnie could hear the cheers and boos, and she packed up her little card table. All the gypsies were packing.

  They knew better than to stay because if their man Freedom won, they would be the target of fighting-mad miners. They moved quickly and quietly, counting their money and collecting their children so that they were ready to move out.

  Jesse Blackton lounged in his booth and jingled the money he had made. He was twenty-two years old, and with a stardo of petty thieving already mounting up. He had the longest coal-black eyelashes, as black as his hair which he wore in a long braid down his back. He also wore his mother’s earring, a long loop, in his left ear. He was very slim, and some said that was why he was such a good thief - his tiny hands could slip into a woman’s putsi like a small child’s. His family didn’t approve of his thieving and he was constantly brought before the elders. But Jesse was Tatchey Romany, very pure-blooded, and because of that he had been forgiven many times and taken back into the fold. Jesse hated Freedom, partly because he was a posh to, posh and yet took the position of a prince. Among the clans Freedom was held up as an example to the children, who were told that one day, according to the readings, Freedom would be rich and successful; he would one day be the king and lead them. Jesse had always felt that to be his prerogative. He could trace his ancestry on both sides back to royal blood, and his many beebees and cocos were scattered from Scotland to the East End of London and beyond to Devon and Cornwall. Jesse could travel anywhere and be greeted with respect and open arms, but he remained with the Welsh family because of his desire to make Rawnie his manushi, his woman. He had been after her since he had joined her clan two years ago, but she would never even give him the time of day.

  Rawnie knew Jesse was after her, and often she played him along a little. She knew he was royal but, in her opinion, he didn’t come anywhere near her man Freedom. As it was, Jesse stood only five foot seven, but she had to admit he was a looker and she saw the effect he had on the younger girls.

  ‘Well,’ said Jesse as he leaned casually against the tiny booth, ‘did you have much bokht tonight?’

  Rawnie jingled her purse and smiled, and asked if Jesse had done well. He said nothing, just lifted his long, silky eyelashes, and gave her a cheeky grin.

  A roar from the crowds inside made them both turn. That was a roar of approval, and it meant that Freedom must be hurt. Jesse turned back to see Rawnie’s frightened face. He kicked at the floor, tossed a stone on to the top of his boot and flicked it away.

  ‘Dinna worry, he’s no Icmggry. Freedom has to have the taste of blood in his mouth before he gets his temper up.’

  There was a massive swell of shouts and boos, and Jesse grinned.

  ‘See what I mean, that’ll be a few dcrnds gone. Maybe he won’t look so handsome after this, but he can cour for a diddicoy.”

  Jesse’s use of the word diddicoy, or outcast, made Rawnie slap him hard, but Jesse just laughed and shook his head which must have been stinging. He ambled off, turning as he went to say, ‘I’ll wait for you, Rawnie. You’ll come to me one day.’

  Another huge cheer from the tent made Rawnie shiver and she packed her belongings fast, hauling them into the wagon and then, knowing she shouldn’t, she made her way towards the big tent.

  She couldn’t even see the ring from the back of the tent so she shoved and pushed her way closer, ducking under the sweating arms, narrowly missed by clenched fists that were boxing on behalf of Hammer. She dodged men who were so absorbed in the fight they were giving blow-by-blow accounts of it to themselves. She could hear the thudding, cheering and yelling but could still see nothing. She didn’t know how the fight was going, but her little, wiry body wriggled through until she could glimpse the corner of the ring through a tiny gap in the crowd.

  Suddenly Rawnie could see Freedom as he sat on his stool, drinking from a bottle of water like a baby, then turning to spit into the bucket. The sweat was dripping from his hair like tears as he leant back against the post. He was rubbed down with a white towel, water was splashed on his face, and then grease was plastered over his eyes. His face looked red, but she could see no cuts, just deep, red marks, and deeper red ones on his chest and shoulders. Then her view was blocked by a screaming fan as the school bell rang for another round.

  Rawnie didn’t even know which round they were fighting or who was ahead on points, so she began to burrow her way closer until she stood behind a bench. ‘The bloody palefaces, typical,’ she thought, ‘they are standing right up close to the ring, no wonder the lads at the back are jumping up and down just to get a glimpse.’

  Hammer was hammering blows to Freedom’s upper body while Freedom ducked and weaved but seemed unable to find a break in Hammer’s defence. Hammer lowered his head, almost as if he were looking at the floor, but kept his fists up and jabbed, jabbed, then he swung. Three times his heavy blows had connected, but Freedom had taken it and not gone down. Hammer was heaving for breath, hissing between his teeth, and like an old ram he thundered body blows at Freedom, but the bastard just kept on taking them.

  This was the hardest fight Freedom had faced to date, and he was at a loss as to how he could get at the man at all,, never mind hit him hard enough to floor him. Freedom couldn’t break through Hammer’s defence -his guard - his jabbing fists, like an oncoming tank.

  Hammer was huge and overweight, and his punches hurt. One had nearly winded Freedom and if it hadn’t been for the bell he might have gone down. Hammer was judging his man, knew he’d got him foxed, now he needed to close in, but Freedom’s reach held him back. The gyppo, Hammer knew, would go for any advantage he could find. He hadn’t expected the fight to go this far and he’d already lost on the betting that he’d have Freedom down in three. The lad looked as though he could go the distance. But Hammer’s age was against him. He had to get the boy out because there was no way Hammer could go the full fifteen rounds at this pace. He decided to open up a little, let the boy think he’d f
ound a chink in his defences, then he’d use his famous right uppercut.

  The crowd was getting resdess. They weren’t getting enough action, and Hammer acted on his decision to open up. It was a fatal mistake; he had misjudged the power of Freedom’s punches, and he felt his left eyebrow split open like an orange. The blood streamed down and he tossed his head like a crazed bull, trying to cut the boy up with his famous Hammerhead, when another sharp blow to his streaming left eye blinded him on that side. He couldn’t see the punches coming, and as he fought on he couldn’t feel them either. They were coming fast, bang bang, one after the other - there was no let-up. The crowd’s boos and hisses were telling Hammer he was losing, but he struggled on, hunched up and tried to get Freedom hemmed into the corner. He knew his eye had to be attended to, the blood was splashing over Freedom’s body. He hung on, leaning his weight on Freedom, hoping to tire him and praying the bell would ring - only the bell would save his neck. But Freedom couldn’t be cornered, and he couldn’t be stopped.

  Hammer lurched at Freedom, felt the big arms trying to push him away, but he clung on. The white towel of the referee flicked - it was now spotted with blood, Hammer’s blood, and then the ref. was between them, trying to break Hammer’s hold.

  ‘Break … Break… Come on, break!’ The referee hauled Hammer off Freedom and gave him a warning against holding, which caused more loud boos and yells from the crowd. Hammer swayed and gave a quick glance to the man with the bell. He was sure it was time. That look was his downfall, he felt the left side of his face blow apart. He was reeling backwards, he stumbled, and the blows kept on coming and coming, then it was black, black on black; Hammer was going down, down into the mines. He was shouting for his Da to help him up, there was heavy, black, thick smoke everywhere. He couldn’t breathe, his chest heaved and he screamed again for his Da, screaming that the roof was caving in. He was falling, falling down a black shaft, no light, no sound, just silence.

  The huge crowd in the tent was ominously quiet, they stared in disbelief as their magnificent Hammer crawled along the canvas floor. He seemed to be crying and his knees were gone, he couldn’t get himself up.

  Then his body crashed, face down, the spray of blood and sweat drenching the first row of the audience.

  Evelyne gasped as the red spray splashed across her suit, and she put her hands up to cover the nightmare in front of her. The huge man crying like a baby, his head split open and the cheering, screaming crowds. She heard herself shouting, and the next moment the place was in an uproar as the men clinging to the ropes high up in the tent fell, landing in the crowd. The benches started toppling as they were pushed from behind, spilling their occupants forwards on to the people in front. Bench after bench went over, trapping people underneath, screaming, fighting, writhing bodies everywhere, a mass of struggling arms and legs.

  Freedom and his crew ran from the ring, pushing the avenging, clawing miners back. They were spat at, insulted, accused of cheating, rigging the match. This had happened once before at a boxing match and the gypsies knew they had to get out fast, move their wagons. The touts would collect the money and bring it to the camp; the main thing was to save themselves from the mob.

  Hammer’s trainer and corners were still trying desperately to revive him, shoving the crowds out of the ring. It was pandemonium as a sprawling mass of bodies fought to get out of the crush. The apparently lifeless body of Hammer was passed over heads and outstretched arms to give him air, get him out of the tent.

  Evelyne clawed her way up over bodies and finally stood, screaming for David, searching frantically for him. She saw Freddy dragging benches aside and he shouted for help. It looked as though David had broken his leg.

  Rawnie pushed and shoved, trying to follow Freedom, and felt her scarf being yanked off her head by an irate miner, who held it in the air.

  ‘Here’s one of the bloody gypos!’

  Hands were all over her, pawing at her, ripping at her clothes. Dear God, why hadn’t she listened, why hadn’t she done as she’d been told? Rawnie scratched at the leering sweating faces.

  With the help of two of the others, Evelyne and Freddy finally managed to get David outside. He was bent double in agony, teeth clenched. Freddy tried to calm him, giving orders to the hysterical women. The rest of their friends were gathering, calling out to each other, thankful they were safe. There was so much shouting and screaming going on that their voices were drowned.

  Freedom jumped aboard the wagon where the waiting boys patted his shoulder and cheered. There were two men up front, and one of them flipped the horses’ reins and the wagon made for the exit. Motor horns were blaring, and now above the yells could be heard the distinctive bells of police cars as they approached the field. The horses kicked and rolled their eyes, and Freedom climbed up front to take the reins.

  The guv’nor, Mr Beshaley, ran to the wagon, his face flushed.

  ‘Get out, get out fast, past the law, he’s dead, Hammer’s not come round, they think he’s dead - I’ll sort out the cash here, see you back at the camp.’

  Beshaley saw Freedom immediately draw the horses back as if to get down. He banged on the side of the wagon.

  ‘Get out of here, all of you … Go go go!’

  The horses were skittish because of the running, shouting people and the sound of the police bells. A crowd of miners was heading for the wagons, shouting to each other. They were going to overturn the gyppos’ carts. The wagon moved forward, cutting through the mob. Suddenly Jesse was running wildly towards them, waving his arms and pointing back at the tent. Freedom stood between the horses, heaving them back by their collars, handed the reins to one of the other men and jumped to the ground. Jesse’s panic-stricken face was streaked with dirt from the clods of earth the miners had started hurling at them.

  ‘She’s still in there, Rawnie, she went back in there, in the tent!’

  Freedom looked back in horror. The boys tried to hold him back, but he just brushed them aside and took off with Jesse running at his heels, shouting as he went, ‘Get out, all of you, we’ll use Rawnie’s cart… . go, go, move.’

  The wagon hurtled forwards, knocking three burly miners off their feet. They stepped out of Freedom’s way, wary of him as he raised his huge fists.

  Freddy managed to lay David down on the back seat of his car, then ran to the driving seat. Evelyne held on to his arm.

  ‘He must go to the hospital, get him to a hospital.’ Freddy released her hand, ‘Get a lift home with one

  of the others, you can’t come with us, I’m taking him

  home, for God’s sake.’

  Evelyne didn’t understand, and she was almost knocked over as Freddy drove the car out of the field.

  She stared after them. The rest of their group was already moving out, their cars heading for the exits, and Evelyne ran towards an oncoming car with Tulip clinging to the running-board. The car drove straight past, leaving her standing there.

  Freedom kept on the move, and when any miner approached him with clenched fists and abuse he growled like a mad dog, baring his teeth and snarling, and they stepped back.

  ‘Fix … bloody fix, man, you cheatin’ bastard!’

  With one hand Freedom grabbed the man, hauled him up and threw him against a pole in the side of the tent.

  ‘You want to take over the fight, man?’

  The man’s false teeth rattled in his mouth, and he held his hands over his face, terrified.

  ‘Anyone else? Anyone else …?’

  They backed off and let him pass. Jesse was waiting at the torn tent flap and together they went inside.

  Chapter 8

  EVELYNE searched the ground for her handbag. She put her hands to her head in despair. Her hat? She’d lost her new hat! At first she felt tearful, then her temper flared and she turned back. She’d not paid fifteen shillings for a new hat to lose it, never mind her handbag. Her hair had come down from the bun, tumbling around her shoulders, and she was being shoved from all sides
, but she gave as good as she got. She stood taller than a lot of the lads she battled through. Having been brought up with three older brothers and having Hugh for a father helped. She rolled up the sleeves of her new suit, it was like the old days out in the yard of a Sunday when she was no more than nine years old. Dicken, Will and Mike were always fighting, and she’d joined in. Now she was as good as any man around her, and she punched and kicked her way through into the tent.

  Jesse searched the dispersing crowd without luck, then he jumped up on Freedom’s shoulders, looking for the familiar red scarf, and saw it being waved around by a group of men by the side of the ring. He urged Freedom forward like a stallion.

  Evelyne felt her hair pulled from behind, and swung her fist round, belting the gormless young boy on the nose.

  ‘Christ almighty, there’s a bloody Amazon in there, bach.’

  The police had imposed some sort of order now, and they gathered around Hammer’s body with their notebooks out. His manager and trainer stood by, helpless. They kept looking at each other and then down at the massive bulk of Hammer at their feet.

  The crowds were thinning out faster than before because the police were there and no one wanted to get booked. Hammer was carried to an ambulance and its crew worked desperately, massaging his heart and trying to resuscitate him. Eventually they were rewarded by a slight flutter of his chest, and he drew a faint breath.

  Evelyne searched among the benches, lifting them up. She didn’t care about her suit, it was ruined anyway, but she wanted her handbag. It had more than three pounds and sixteen shillings in it, a new comb and mirror. Evelyne suddenly felt faint, oh God, she thought, my post office savings book! She didn’t care who saw her, she lifted her skirt and felt inside her bloomers, then she sighed with relief. Her precious savings - her legacy -was safe. Then her temper rose again as she remembered that her return ticket was also in the handbag.

  She was now close to the ring. Its platform was on stilts, some six feet off the ground and was swathed in tarpaulins. Could her handbag have slithered beneath the ring? She pulled the fabric aside.