The Legacy Read online

  As she snipped around the photo she couldn’t help but notice the lead article on the next page, ‘Police investigate two revenge murders’.

  She carried the paper over to the lamp and sat down. The article stated that the two boys had been found with their throats slit open, their hands tied behind their backs. At first, they believed the motive had been robbery, but then a third boy had given himself up to the local constabulary. He admitted that he and his friends had made advances to a gypsy girl and one of the gypsy men, Freedom Stubbs, had warned them that they would take their revenge. The article requested anyone knowing of Freedom Stubbs’ whereabouts to come forward.

  From then on Evelyne kept every article she found, carefully hidden in her bedroom. She never mentioned the article to her father, not that she saw that much of him to talk to. He spent most evenings in a room above the pub holding meetings for the local miners. Evelyne worked at the school during the day and studied for her examinations in the evenings. Hugh no longer even needed her to help out at the meetings, taking notes and writing letters and so forth. Gladys Turtle had taken over that side of things.

  ‘No need for you to interrupt your studies, love.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Da, really I don’t.’

  ‘Well, lass, as a matter o’ fact we’ve got a sort of committee secretary, Gladys Turtle, from Lower North Road, nice woman, a widow.’

  Although slighdy put out, Evelyne said nothing. She watched from her window as Hugh met up with the ‘merry widow’, as Gladys was known in the village. Not diat she was particularly merry, just that she had over-indulged in the sweet sherry at her late husband’s funeral and passed out. She was a small, neat, white-haired woman with a shelf-like bosom, and a habit of wearing crocheted flowers on her hats or pinned to her coat collar.

  Gladys had found a new lease on her boring, mundane life, working with Hugh. She had always had an eye for him, even when he was a youngster, but of course he would never have looked at her - she was no beauty like his Mary. Gladys reckoned that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and she cooked stews and casseroles for Hugh to take home in small pots. He would sneak into the house with them, as if embarrassed, and Evelyne would watch him heating them up. Then he would wink at her and wolf the food down.

  Gladys had passed by earlier, walking with Hugh - he always took her home after meetings. ‘I’ve just walked our Gladys back, do you fancy one of her scones?’

  Shaking her head, Evelyne closed her books.

  ‘She’s got a young nephew staying, nice young fella, Willie, looking for work like the rest of us. He had a good job over at Glamorgan, beats me why he gave it up. Word is, he may have got a young girl in the family way.’

  Hugh coughed and stuck his finger down his starched collar.

  ‘I was wonderin’, like, maybe as she’s so nice with all these scones and stews, perhaps it would be neighbourly like if we had her and this young Willie come to tea Sunday?’

  ‘Why not, if that is what you would like, Da?’

  He stood up, beaming, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Ay, it is, good, well, I’ll leave it with you, shall I?’

  Evelyne collected their supper from the fish and chip shop, and carried it home wrapped in newspaper. As she left the shop she bumped into Gladys, and cordially invited her and her nephew to tea on Sunday. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, I’ll look forward to it.’ Not wanting Evelyne to see that she also frequented the fish and chip shop, Gladys waited until Evelyne had walked the length of the street before she went in. From behind the counter the sweating Nellie gave her a toothless smile.

  ‘Eh, she’s a right stuck-up one, that, ever since she got that wireless, come with her legacy … two cod, Gladys, is it?’

  As she unwrapped the fish and chips a grease-stained headline caught Evelyne’s eye, ‘Third Murder Victim’. She pulled at the paper, spilling chips on the table.

  ‘Police step up their search for Freedom Stubbs. They now believe the murders to be revenge killings, all committed by the same hand. Each victim has died in the same circumstances, their hands tied behind their backs and their throats slit. In each killing it seems the murderer knew where his victim lived and worked.’

  Sunday was chapel day which meant choir practice, and Hugh went off in his Sunday suit, leaving Evelyne to prepare tea for Gladys and Willie. She baked some scones and, of course, just when she would have liked them to be the best batch she had ever made, they went flat and hard as a rock. Then she slipped down to the newspaper shop to buy a Sunday paper.

  Walking back, searching through the paper to see if there was any more news of the murders, she passed a poster advertising the Easter fair. As usual the gypsies would set up their fair on the mountainside. It was always a big occasion, and being a Bank Holiday the men had an extra day off work. There would be coconut shies, hoop-la, and sometimes they built a giant see-saw for the children.

  Evelyne stopped. There was a small item on the second page which simply stated that the police were no further along with their investigation. She hurried on, then stopped again. Even from the street she could smell her bread burning. She ran in with a scream of fury, but it was burnt to a cinder. As she opened the windows to get rid of the terrible smell, she saw Hugh outside with a group of miners on their way back from choir practice.

  There was a hell of a row going on, Hugh standing in the centre of the crowd thumping his fist in his palm. The men were shaking their fists at him, all shouting at once.

  ‘You bastard, Hugh Jones, we go out on strike you tell me who’s gonna feed my ten kids.’

  Hugh shouted back and waved his arms, ‘We’ll all chip in, if we don’t stand united then we fall. You said yerself, mun, you not got enough money to feed yer babies now, an’ yer workin’, don’t you understand that’s what we’re striking for, a living wage, mun! We strike!’

  Some of them started to walk home, and Evelyne was about to turn back to her studies when she saw a figure on the edge of the crowd around Hugh. It was Freedom Stubbs, large as life, leaning against the wall with a half-smile on his face. Evelyne clapped her hand over her mouth and turned away from the window.

  ‘Oh, God, it couldn’t be him, not here, not in our village.’

  When she looked again he had gone, as if he had vanished into thin air.

  ‘Evie! Evie! Is tea ready, they’ll be here by half past three lass, and the table’s not laid.’

  She ran downstairs to the kitchen where Hugh was already shaking out a clean tablecloth.

  ‘Da, the gypsy fair, they’re not setting it up yet, are they?’

  Hugh reached down the best crockery. ‘Oh, they start early for Easter, lovey. It’s their big time. An’ then they’ll be arranging a fight as usual, Devil’s Rock.’

  There was a tap on the door, and Hugh gave Evelyne a startled look.

  ‘They’re here early, are we all set?’

  Before Evelyne had time to answer he was opening the front door and ushering Gladys along the passage.

  ‘Come in, Gladys, and you, Willie. Welcome, welcome.’

  ‘Is something on fire, Hugh love? I can smell burning.’

  With a frosty smile Evelyne turned to greet them.

  ‘Here they are, Evie, Gladys you know, and this is Willie, her nephew.’

  Evelyne dropped the plate of solid scones on the flagged floor and the plate smashed in two. Immediately Willie pushed forward and bent to pick up the scones.

  “Fraid yer plate’s broken, but the scones are none the worse.’

  Hugh laughed and said it was more than likely the scones that had crashed through the plate.

  Evelyne stared at Willie as he held the chair out for his aunt. She knew it was him, had known at first glance. So this was why he had left Glamorgan, given up his job, Willie Thomas was the boy she had seen on top of Rawnie, this was the lad who had torn her hair out by the roots and who Evelyne had virtually knocked unconscious with the bench leg. She wondered if he
recognized her and could hardly bear to look in his direction.

  ‘Auntie tells me you’re a schoolteacher, that right, Evie?’

  She busied herself passing the jam, and murmured that it was quite right. Her mind was racing. He wouldn’t know her now, surely he wouldn’t … she looked up to meet his gaze. He gave Evelyne a wink. His familiarity, calling her Evie when he had only just met her, made her temper rise. It was definitely him, the red neck, the horrid, bright red hair.

  Gladys simpered coyly and looked up at Hugh, then spoke to Evelyne, ‘We thought you might get uppity, another woman in your kitchen, but you’ve made us very welcome, Evie.’

  Evelyne looked down at her plate. The scones were terrible, she could hardly get her teeth through hers. Hugh coughed.

  ‘Ah well, I’ve not actually told her, we’ll announce it in chapel next week, but we are unofficially engaged to be married, that right, Gladys?’

  Somehow Evelyne found her voice and said stiffly that she was very happy for them. The soft, powdered cheek brushed Evelyne’s, and she got a close-up view of the silly crochet work on Gladys’ hat. Evelyne wanted to cry out. How could her Da want this silly woman?

  Gladys insisted on staying with Hugh to wash the dishes, and Evelyne showed Willie into the front room. Willie sat on the sofa and gave her a wide smile. ‘She’s a good woman, Aunt Glad … Evie, will you sit beside me?’

  ‘My name’s Evelyne … so, you’re here looking for work, is that right? You’ll not find any, and there’s the strike coming, you should go back to Glamorgan, or Cardiff even.’

  He shrugged, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing out the smoke and crossing his legs.

  ‘Do you know Cardiff then, Willie?’

  She caught his sly glance, and noticed that he flicked his ash on to her polished lino.

  ‘I’ve been there, but I prefer it here.’

  She was one hundred per cent sure it was him, any doubts had disappeared and she boiled with anger at what he had done.

  Hugh interrupted the tense moment. ‘Right, Evie, will you be at the meeting? They’ll be arriving any moment, Gladys is setting out the books … an’ you too, Willie, it’s important tonight.’

  Hugh stood before the fire with his trousers almost sizzling.

  ‘No man’s takin’ these decisions lightly, for Lord’s sake, mun. You think I for one dunno what hardships we’re all headin’ for?’

  Harry Jones jabbed the air with his finger and demanded to know if Hugh could face starving women, never mind starving kids. Hugh sighed and rubbed his hair until it stood on end. ‘Jesus Christ, mun, I know that even the most tenacious strikers are giving way, but…’

  Hugh had heard the word ‘tenacious’ on the wireless and now used it at every opportunity. The others stopped arguing for a moment as he explained what he meant. Harry muttered that he didn’t give a bugger who was ‘tenacled’ or not, all he knew was his kids were starving, and he had to work to put a crust into their mouths. Hugh banged his fist against the mantel. Intensive union activity had taken its toll not only on him but on four others who were blacklisted. Again his voice rose as he told the men that there were some working with their union badges sewn into their collars for fear of the managers knowing they were members.

  Taffy Rawlins twisted his cap and blurted out, ‘Lot o’ men tried workin’ in other collieries. Soon as it was discovered they was union men, none of ‘em could get taken on.’

  Harry Jones rose to his feet, jabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘Ay, an’ rumour ‘as it, any man what’s a member has ‘is name circ’lated from the union roster.

  They’ll never get work, not now the strike is on, not when it’s over.’

  Taffy was at it again, waving his cap. ‘I believe, Hugh Jones, an’ there’s many that says I’m right, your union is bloody destroying a man’s right ta work.’

  Dramatically, Hugh tore off his threepenny-piece-sized union badge and held it up above his head.

  ‘If we don’t join this union now, if we don’t pull together, you’ll all be no better than the pit ponies left down the mines to rot. The managers, the owners, don’t give a hang whether a man dies or not, they’re more worried about losing a dram than they are about any man.’ Hugh’s voice was earshattering in the hot, stuffy, confined kitchen. ‘You lose a dram o’coal, mun, and what happens? The buggers make you pay for it. But when have they paid for a man’s life? The proprietors know the men are weak, that they have no organization so they can do what the hell they like. The pit manager can sack when he pleases, and the poor bugger can do nothing about it, and they’d hardly pay him a penny … Am I right, tell me?’

  Throughout the meeting Gladys took copious notes for the minutes. Willie paid little attention, picking his teeth with a match and yawning. Evelyne kept feeling his eyes on her but refused to return his stare.

  At last the meeting broke up and Evelyne packed what food was left over from tea and slipped it to Taffy for his kids. Hugh walked Gladys home, still arguing with Harry. Willie made no move to leave with his aunt, sitting in Hugh’s chair by the fire. ‘I just seen there’s a good film at the pictures, Evie, last show’s at nine, fancy an outing?’

  Evelyne folded her arms. ‘My name’s Evelyne to you, son, or Miss Jones. And if you want some advice I’d clear out.’

  Willie looked completely unabashed. He propped his feet on the fireguard.

  ‘That’s none too friendly, considerin’ we’ll be related soon.’

  Evelyne would have liked to swipe his gloating face.

  ‘I’ve no intention of makin’ a friend of you, none at all, and I don’t want you in this house again, now out… go on, hop it.’

  His piggy eyes glinted, and he slowly removed his feet from the fireguard. He looked at her, and she could almost see the wheels churning round in his flushed head.

  ‘Way I hear it, you should think yourself lucky bein’ asked out, there’s not many lads left in the village. There’s plenty of young girls panting to go to the pictures so don’t put yourself out, Miss Schoolteacher.’

  Evelyne watched the cocky boy saunter out, and she restrained herself from aiming a blow at the back of his stocky, flushed neck. As the door closed behind him, Evelyne went to fetch her heavy coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped out the back way. She didn’t want anyone to see her, to know where she was going.

  The gypsies were just setting up their camp, the wagons and trailers drawn up in a semicircle, a group of men erecting the big, round living tents. A fire blazed in the centre of the ring, and a few children were hanging round, wearing cotton dresses and thin, threadbare woollies. Although barefooted they seemed hardly to notice the cold, but they noticed Evelyne striding up the hill. She’d opened up her coat as she was warm from the long walk, and her cheeks flushed pink from the evening air.

  A runny-nosed little boy with huge, dark eyes watched her, a brooding look on his tiny face, then he put out his hand.

  ‘Give us a penny, come on missus, just a copper, we’re starvin’ hungry.’

  Evelyne looked down at the tiny boy already adept at begging, and showed him her empty pockets.

  ‘Is Freedom with you, boy? I need to talk with Freedom.’

  At that moment a woman with a shawl wrapped around her appeared from behind the bushes. She grabbed the child by the hair and walloped him, with a cold, angry look at Evelyne.

  ‘There’s no one of that name here.’ The children ran like hell away from the sharp-tongued woman, the little boy looking back at Evelyne. She went nearer to the camp, and now the men turned and stared with the expressionless, unnerving faces. She stood looking around, then spoke loudly, her voice echoing.

  ‘I need to speak with Freedom, is he here with you?’

  They made no reply, just turned their backs and continued working. Women passed hooded looks to one another and she saw two men talking together in sign

  language.

  ‘I know he’s with you and I
have to talk with him.’ A grey-haired man, wearing clothes fit for a scare-crow, shuffled towards her. He came within about six feet of her and showed his toothless, shiny gums as he spoke.

  ‘There’s no one by that name here, wench. Git out of it. Listen to what I say, go away from here.’

  Evelyne turned and walked out of the field and headed down the steep path, thinking to herself that at least she’d tried. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and felt the newspaper clippings, paused, looking back, and then walked on. She took the narrow path round the mountainside, beginning to think herself stupid for risking walking out this late, and so close to the gypsy camp. All her father’s old warnings came back to her and she quickened her pace.

  Freedom had watched her walk into the camp, seen the way she stamped her foot angrily, turned on her heel and marched out. She had snapped a dead branch off a tree and was whacking the hedges as she walked along. He sat up in the fork of a tree, watching her with his dark eyes, amused, smiling. She was an odd one, that was for sure. As Evelyne walked beneath his tree he dropped down, and she shrieked with terror. When she saw it was him, she put her hands on her hips and let him have it.

  ‘That’s a fine thing to do! You nearly gave me heart failure, you did!’

  With a mocking bow, but without saying a word, Freedom began to walk along beside her. Evelyne took the newspaper cuttings from her pocket.

  ‘I suppose you’ve read all these? You can read?’

  Freedom cocked his head to one side, smiling. She only came up to his shoulder and had to look up into his face. His hair had grown longer and he had tied it back with a leather thong. He now wore a gold earring in his right ear.

  ‘I’ve come to tell you to leave, the police will be here, that’s what I’ve come all this way to say.’

  With one quick hop Freedom was in front of her, walking backwards.

  Still walking, she continued, ‘You can’t just go around killing people, even if what they did was a terrible thing. The law must know the boy’s here, and with the fair being here too, they’re bound to come around asking questions.’