The villa’s shutters were closed; Evelyne didn’t want the sunlight, she wanted the dark to wrap around her and comfort her. Freda came and sat beside her, held her hand.
‘Sir Charles was at the hospital. He said Freedom’s contract was cancelled.’
Freda wanted to cry, but she kept herself under control. ‘We’ll go home, Ed says, as soon as Freedom’s well.’
‘How did Sir Charles come to have all that money? It doesn’t seem right, the way he can pick people up, then drop them.’
Freda sighed and patted Evelyne’s hand. ‘Well, darlink, he never even met any of his miners, but he treats them the same way.’
‘What do you mean?’
Surprised she didn’t know, Freda told her Sir Charles’ family money was made from coal mining. She was taken aback when Evelyne laughed, a bitter, humourless laugh. ‘My God, I should have known it. I hate him, Freda, I hate him so.’
‘He has troubles, too, Evie. His trustees, so Ed tells me, always keep him short of money, he has to fight them all the time.’
‘Keep him short? He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. My brothers worked the mines, their knees cut and their elbows bent, their backs torn to shreds. He wouldn’t know what it felt like to go short, to beg for a crust of bread. I hate him.’
Freda saw the rage in Evelyne, the deep anger, unleash itself. The violent movements of her hands emphasized what she was saying, ‘I wonder how much he made out of him, how much? It’ll be more than we have coming to us. Dear God, Freda, I hate that man so much I could go and … and …’
Suddenly Evelyne was sobbing, her shoulders heaving. Freda stroked her hair, knowing it was best Evie should cry, to release her anger. It wasn’t really hatred for Sir Charles, it was her pain for Freedom.
Ed came home from the hospital, heavy-hearted. He laid his straw hat down. ‘I dunno what’s goin’ ter ‘appen, Freda, they tell me he’s still paralysed down ‘is left side. It must’ve ‘appened when he fell outta the ring. I should’ve stopped ‘im, Freda, I ‘ad the chance first time ‘e went down. I should’ve made ‘im quit. But I wanted ‘im ter win so bad … wanted ‘im ter win, an’ I failed ‘im, I failed my boy, Freda.’ He rubbed his head, held his hand out to Freda. He clung to her and sobbed, and she rocked him in her arms. Ed wasn’t weeping for a fighter, the loss of the championship — he was heart-broken for his ‘golden boy’, his ‘son’.
They could hear Evelyne moving around upstairs; she came down with her face set, pale and drawn from crying. ‘Ed, will you drive me to the cab stand. I’ll go back to the hospital, sit with him until morning.’
Ed wiped his tears with the back of his;hand, afraid Evelyne had seen. He put his straw hat on at a jaunty angle.
‘Right, then, let’s be ‘avin’ yer.’
Sir Charles had been so silent, so preoccupied that Dewhurst crept around the hotel suite. ‘I’ve packed everything, sir, and we are ready whenever you wish to leave.’
Sir Charles gave him a small smile. ‘Jolly good. I’ll be flying, I know how you feel about planes, if you would prefer to travel straight back to the Grange I can arrange your passage.’
‘Oh, that’s very good of you, sir, but I have a great inclination to see Hollywood. They say there’s a guided tour of the film stars’ homes that’s rather special.’
Sir Charles nodded, but seemed loath to leave.
‘Will you be wanting to drive to the hospital before we depart, sir?’
He received no answer. ‘May I ask how Mr Stubbs is, sir?’
Sir Charles stood up, straight as an arrow. He placed a long finger on the centre of his forehead as if he were in pain, and his voice sounded strangled, ‘ ‘Fraid he’s not too good, old chap, will you make sure they have their passages arranged, the boat, will you do that?’
He swallowed, still pressing his finger to his head, then took out a silk handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘Will you be looking for a new fighter, sir?’
Sir Charles tucked his handkerchief back into his top pocket, making sure the folds were sitting exactly as they should. ‘No, there’ll be no more fighters, Dewhurst. Er! Well, hurry along and I’ll meet you at the car.’
As the door closed behind Dewhurst, Sir Charles stared around the room. Crumpled in the waste basket was the fight programme, Freedom’s face twisted and torn. The wondrous face, the long, flying hair, the ‘Gypsy King’ … He picked it up, took it to the table and tried to press out the creases, but they would not be smoothed. The beautiful face was cracked, crumpled, and Sir Charles tore it into tiny fragments. But the face was still there, in front of him on the polished table. He felt as if Freedom were in the room with him and it frightened him.
Freedom lay still, his breathing shallow, and Evelyne sat beside him. For a moment his eyes opened, and he murmured, ‘Sir Charles? Did he come, Evie?’
‘He’s gone, darling, we’re free of him now. There’ll be no more fighting, it’s over.’
Freedom’s body trembled, he moaned softly. His lips moved as if he were saying something she couldn’t quite hear. She leaned closer, but the words were in his own language, jumbled, strange, sighing words. The trembling grew stronger, his whole body shaking. He gripped her hand tightly, and the tremor ran through her, making her body feel electrified. He gripped tighter, tighter, until her hand hurt, but she couldn’t release it. Then, just as it had started, die shaking ceased. Freedom sighed, a long, soft moan that continued for almost half a minute. Evelyne drew back her hand, afraid, but now he was relaxed, a sweet smile on his lips. The time was exactly twelve o’clock, Evelyne knew it was exactly on the hour because her wrist watch had stopped.
Sir Charles looked at the dials, die needles were swinging round and round, and the engine cut … without power, they were dropping from the sky, a dead weight. Dewhurst tried to unbuckle his seat belt to get to his master, but there was no time. It was over in seconds, the plane spiralling as it made its terrifying journey to the ground. Sir Charles tried desperately to regain power, and then he gave up. A face, blurred, floated in the clouds like a hand-coloured photograph, but it was cracked and torn. In the seconds before the plane crashed into the Nevada desert, Sir Charles Wheeler saw the face of Freedom Stubbs, not as he had been when Sir Charles had first seen him in the ring, like a wild animal at Devil’s Pit, but bloody, beaten, crumpled like the programme in the hotel waste paper basket.
The search party found the wreckage from the sky. The black smoke curling up in a spiral, thick grey and red smoke clouding the air with black specks of charred dollar bills. All Freedom Stubbs’ winnings, all Ed Meadows’ hardearned wages, all gone. The plane was no more than a shell when the rescuers came on the scene.
They knew exactly what time the plane had crashed. Sir Charles’ fob watch had stopped at precisely twelve o’clock. The dials on the plane’s control panel were cracked and broken from the heat and the impact of the crash. The clock on the panel had also stopped at twelve o’clock.
BOOK FIVE
Chapter 26
THE STUBBS family returned to England with the Meadows. The news of Freedom’s terrible defeat arrived ahead of them. The British Champion limped, and his face still bore tell-tale marks of the beating. He felt he had let everyone down, and was ashamed to look anyone in the face. He could not defend his British title; his boxing days were, as Evelyne had said, over.
News of Sir Charles Wheeler’s death also preceded them, as well as the two bodies, which were flown from Nevada. Ed did not understand the full implications of Sir Charles’ death until he contacted the Wheeler trustees. Freedom’s earnings and his own had been in Sir Charles’ keeping, and it seemed to Ed a simple matter. The solicitors replied to his letter cordially enough, but in legal language that took a long time to decipher. The gist of it
