On all questions of cloth, texture and style, Freedom allowed Sir Charles to dominate him. He was unbelievably pernickety, feeling each piece of cloth and taking it to the daylight to examine it.
‘Would it be possible, sir, to have a camelhair coat?’ Sir Charles didn’t even reply to this, just let his monocle pop out in disgust. The fellow would be wanting a velvet collar next.
Freedom’s feet were measured for boots and shoes, and Sir Charles put pressure on the makers to complete them as soon as possible.
The Jermyn Street flat consisted of a single bedroom, a valet’s room, a dining room and a small sitting room. There was no kitchen, one either sent out for food or dined out. Dewhurst was installed in the flat and instructed to make sure Mr Stubbs never ate with a serving spoon again. He was to be shown how to eat like a gentleman with the correct tableware, and to be taught about wines.
Ed was amazed to see Freedom allowing himself to be carted around like a show-horse without a murmur. Not once did he complain, and only kicked up a fuss when it was suggested that he have his hair cut. This became a major argument, and eventually Sir Charles attempted a compromise.
‘All right, old chap, we’ll find a happy medium — won’t have you sheared, just a trim, it’s frightfully long and could do with a simple trim, what do you say?’
Freedom stared gloomily at his reflection and stubbornly refused to have it cut. They couldn’t say it would get in the way when he was boxing, because it would be tied back with a leather thong. Ed knew what would happen if Freedom’s temper was roused so he quietly suggested to Sir Charles that the long hair could be a unique advantage in being so unusual. At last Sir Charles acquiesced, and Freedom grinned. It wasn’t that he minded taking care of it, he loved having it washed, loved his head being massaged, and loved choosing perfumes to use on it.
One week later Freedom stood looking at himself in the bedroom mirror. After three attempts to tie Freedom’s tie, Dewhurst was finally satisfied, and stood back to admire his work. He had to admit the man looked splendid, apart from the hair, of course, which went without saying. With that hair and the colour of his skin Freedom could never be taken for a gentleman. Yet somehow he looked almost regal. He now had a complete wardrobe of suits, shirts, ties, overcoats, boots and underwear.
Sir Charles rested his chin on the top of his cane and looked up as Freedom entered, then beamed. Now they could dine at White’s. Ed gaped and looked with renewed interest at Freedom. He was a fine looking fella, and Ed hid a smile. The lad was certainly a looker, just like the movie idol, Valentino, no doubt about it.
‘I wonder, Sir Charles, if you’ve had any word from Miss Evelyne?’
Sir Charles was nonplussed for a moment, and Ed gave Freedom a shifty look. ‘He means Miss Jones, yer know, sir, from Cardiff, she was stayin’ at The Grange wiv us.’
‘You see, she was my girl, an’ I’m worried about her.’
Sir Charles pursed his lips. ‘Miss Jones? Is that who you’re referring to, Miss Jones? Good God, man, I’ve absolutely no idea where on earth she is, she left weeks ago. Besides, I don’t like this “my girl” thing at all. If you recall your words on oath in the witness stand in Cardiff, you categorically denied any relationship with Miss Jones, are you now telling me you lied?’
Freedom’s hands were clenched at his sides, and Ed began to sweat.
‘I never lied, sir, it was the truth, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have no feelings for her. That came after the court case, she’s my wife.’
Sir Charles’ monocle popped out and he had to sit down. He repeated the word.
‘Wife …? Wife? Ed, did you know about this? I find it all very disturbing. When Miss Jones left, she made no mention of you being married.’
Ed was so perplexed he didn’t know which way to turn and he could see Freedom’s temper rising. ‘Now, now, Freedom, that might be stretchin’ it a bit far, they’re not married, sir, not in a church, they did some Romany thing.’
In an icy voice Sir Charles reminded Freedom again of what he had said in court, on oath. He went on to inform him of the mounting costs of his new wardrobe, not to mention the lodgings, the training, wages for Ed and the two corner men, everything provided for Freedom on the simple condition that he box. Freedom was fighting to hold on to his temper as he faced Sir Charles.
‘I reckon, sir, that I done that, and I am indebted to you, course I am — but that don’t mean I am owned by you.’
This caused Sir Charles to throw his hands up in horror, it was all getting really out of hand. ‘Your contract with myself is legal and binding. With reference to Miss Jones, she asked to leave The Grange the day before you yourself left. Surely if she had felt any overwhelming emotional tie to you she would have told you herself? Now, I think we really must forget all this nonsense, I have a table booked for nine-fifteen and I am looking forward to introducing you to my guests.’
He swept out, signalling for Ed to follow him. They walked a short way along the street together, Sir Charles’ manner deathly cold. ‘Make sure he’s there, will you, old chap, maybe you should tell him what he’ll be worth if he wins the title. He’ll get a purse of near two hundred. Tell him that and we’ll see how much this wretched woman means to him.’
Ed went slowly back up in the small, gilded lift. He sat down next to Freedom and patted his knee like a father. It was impossible to know what Freedom was thinking, his face was mask-like, the black eyes expressionless, he even seemed relaxed. He stared down at his big hands and he spoke softly, as if he was miles away. ‘We have a saying, an old Romany saying, that if you love something, you must set it free; if it returns to you it is yours, if it doesn’t then it never was …’
Poor Ed didn’t really know what to do. He couldn’t afford to lose his job, and Sir Charles was such an odd man, Ed never knew which way he would turn. ‘Freedom, lad, ‘is Lordship’s investin’ a lot of money in you, and ‘e don’t want no dirty publicity ‘bout you an’ that murder investigation.’
Freedom protested his innocence, and Ed sighed. ‘He’s adamant about it, an’ you know without ‘im you would be swingin’ fer that murder, you know that. See, you’ll be meetin’ all kinds of people now, society, like, perhaps even the prince himself, they can’t ‘ave no scandal.’
Freedom frightened Ed with his sly, strange smile. ‘He won’t want me, though, if I lose the title, mun, will he?’
Ed shouted at him that he would have two hundred pounds purse money if he won. ‘Gawd ‘elp me, two hundred pounds, you know how many years I gotta work ter make that much?’
Freedom still wore that smile and Ed was scared, not of what Freedom might do to him, but because he knew Freedom didn’t really care about money.
‘So what happens if we was to find ‘er, and she not want you? Eh?’
Freedom moved his hands like a bird, she could fly away, do as she wanted, but he had to see her.
Evelyne had found work in a small bookshop in Charing Cross Road. The owner was an eccentric gentleman called Arnold Snodgrass. He wore a crumpled, stained suit, and was never without a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. His yellow teeth could be seen when he spoke in his strange, theatrical voice.
The shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with books, manuscripts and papers. The stench of cats and musty, ageing paper was at first nauseating. Evelyne was so dizzy at times she had to sit down on the stepladder.
Old Snoddy was unaware of her, as he was of the stench. ‘Listen to this, dear heart, a little snippet of interest — did you know that Shakespeare, that wondrous bard, actually made up the word “lonely”? Imagine him sitting at his desk with his quill and thinking it up … alone … lone … lonely … now first play he used this new word was … Coriolanus, fascinating, what? Wonderful play … lonely.”. ’
Evelyne picked up a volume so heavy she could only just carry it from one side of the shop to the other. She sighed, her own loneliness taking precedence over Mr Snodgrass’ snippet.
The next thing she knew Mrs Harris was standing over her burning one of Snoddy’s own quill pens. Mrs Harris was a round, motherly woman who cleaned the shop and back room as best she could, and she also cleaned various other shops in the same area.
‘She’s comin’ round now, sir. What ‘appened, did she fall or what? It’s them ‘eavy volumes she’s carrying round.’
Snoddy slurped his morning tea and shrugged, not interested in the slightest in the health of his assistant. He was buried in Coriolanus, still musing about his discovery.
