a pair of monkeys to him, they loved to scratch him with their long, red-painted fingernails. Still, they helped him to forget, forget Evie.
Ted Harris heard Evelyne come in, and opened the kitchen door.
‘Evie, that you, ducks? A cabbie came round wiv a parcel for you, here, see, cab all by itself, no one inside.’
Evelyne took the parcel but wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘You all right, ducks? Feelin’ poorly, are you?’
‘I’m fine, I’ll just rest, I’ll see to the children’s tea in a minute.’
Ted watched her hurry along the passage to her room. She was so pale, it worried him.
In the room Evelyne opened Miss Freda’s gifts. The tiny baby clothes, so perfectly made, were perhaps not in the colours she would have chosen, but they were beautiful. There was a little note in the parcel, but the writing was so bad that it took Evelyne ages to decipher what Freda had written.
‘In haste, darling, I will come and see you. God bless you and keep you well. Yours, Freda.’
Freda’s mouth seemed to be out of control, it kept dropping open as she sat and watched Freedom lounging on the sofa opposite her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, she had noticed that right at the start, as soon as they had arrived. He was being flippant and amusing, and from his shoes to his shining hair he was so well-groomed she would never have known him.
‘Lads reckon you’ll be having to start work first thing Monday, Freedom?’
Freda knew what Ed was going on about, but Freedom seemed to pay him little attention. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and asked Ed if he would go down to the teashop and order something for them.
An extremely disgruntled Ed departed, leaving Freedom and Freda alone together. They sat in silence for a minute, Freedom staring down at his shiny boots and Freda looking at the curtains, reckoning the material would cost at least four or five shillings a yard. He. wanted to talk to her, desperately needed to talk to someone, but he just didn’t know how to begin.
Eventually he rose to his feet and picked up his walking stick, tossed it in the air and then showed Freda the silver handle. ‘See, it’s a boxing glove, Miss Freda.’
She looked, not that she was particularly interested. It was Freedom, he had changed, and she couldn’t speak to him any more.
‘Yes, Sir Charles give it to me, bought it for me, he likes buyin’ things, yes he does, I reckon he got me cheap, though … Well ta-ra, Dewhurst’ll see to your needs.’
He gave a low bow and was gone.
That night, Freda agreed with Ed that Freedom had changed. She couldn’t talk to him, not in the old way, it was as if he was a stranger.
Poor Ed was at a loss, ‘It’s the way ‘e ‘as of making you not know what ‘e’s thinkin’, what ‘e’s feelin’ … ‘e told me they was married, did I tell you that? Yes, ‘e said Evie an’ ‘im was married, not a proper service like ours, some Romany thing they just did together — becomin’ a real ladies,’ man now, though!’
This was Freda’s moment to ask if Freedom was missing Evelyne, wanted to see her at all. ‘Does he still ask after Evie, Ed?’
Ed replied in a mutter that Sir Charles had forbidden it, in case a scandal about the trial got out. ‘ ‘E was on a murder charge. You think the prince an’ all those society people’d be sittin’ pawin’ at ‘im if they knew that? It’s best Evie’s name never crops up.’
Freda couldn’t bring herself to tell Ed about Evie’s letter, about the baby. If anything it would cause an even greater scandal.
Sir Charles was staying at the Savile Club, and Ed went to meet him there.
‘He’s not the same lad, guv, shows no interest, an’ ‘e’s not comin’ to the gym, I was wonderin’ if you could ‘ave a word wiv ‘im, seein’ as you’re takin’ ‘im out an’ about … Only, if we don’t get ‘im ter buckle down ‘e’ll lose the championship an’ we’ll both be left — if you’ll pardon the expression — we’ll both be left lookin’ like bleedin’ idiots.’
‘Ed, what do you take me for, I’ve not seen him in over a week! Good God, man, I’m the first to know that a fighter mustn’t, as you say, burn up his wick, tell him to come to the Pelican tonight, and you too, Ed.’
Freedom was late arriving at the club, which annoyed Sir Charles, who had checked his watch three times. There was a good snooker game going on in one of the annexes, and he saw Freedom strolling along, watching the players.
‘Here he is now, Ed, leave it to me.’
When he joined them Freedom asked the waiter for a beer, then leaned back in his chair, rocking it on its back legs.
‘Thinking of bringing in a sparring partner, just to work you up for the big day, what do you say?’
For a reply he got a shrug of the shoulders. Freedom seemed more interested in the snooker. Staring at him through his monocle, Sir Charles lit a cigar, puffed on it.
‘Ed here tells me you’re below par. That true, feeling off colour, are you?’
Again the annoying shrug of Freedom’s shoulders as he murmured that if Ed had said it then it must be true. Sir Charles had had enough, he leaned forward and snapped at Freedom in icy tones, ‘When you feel you can talk, please contact me. I’m afraid I have better things to do with my time than to sit here and be insulted. You may believe I own you, so be it, but I am not prepared to be treated like a pimp, pull yourself together, lad, or I will throw your contract back in your face, is that clear?’ He walked briskly away from the table without a backward glance.
Wanting to weep, Ed stared sorrowfully into his beer. How could Freedom do this to him after all the love and hard work Ed had put into him? ‘You just kicked me down, you know that, lad? I dunno why you done this to me, you could be the next British champion, I know it, but not this way. You’re breakin’ my ‘eart.’
Shoving Freedom’s hand away he stumbled from the table, leaving Freedom sitting alone in the pit.
Outside the club an old, bent man was sweeping the pavement, where the sawdust had travelled on the gents’ shoes into the road. The old chap didn’t seem to notice Freedom, and almost ran the brush over his shoes.
‘Aw, sorry about that, sir, here, allow me … you a fightin’ mun are ye?’
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he was about to bend down to dust Freedom’s shoes. He looked up for a moment. His bruiser’s face was wrinkled, and he had cauliflower ears, a broken nose.
‘Hammer, it’s you, isn’t it? Dai Thomas, Hammerhead?’
The old boy chuckled and wagged his head, spat on his fists and held them up.
‘Ay, lad, that’s me all right.’
With a toothless grin he looked into Freedom’s face with no sign of recognition. Freedom’s heart went out to him, he looked at all the traffic heading towards Piccadilly. ‘Where can a mun get a cup of tea this time of night?’ Hammer waved his brush to a small alley, and accepted Freedom’s offer to accompany him there. He also accepted the steaming bowl of soup Freedom placed before him. He sucked at the bread, making loud noises as he slurped the thick soup. He wiped the bowl with his crust until it glistened. He made no reply when Freedom asked how long he had been in London. But his face lit up when the ham and eggs followed, then he turned sly.
‘What are you after? Why you buying all this for me, eh?’
He raised the fork and tucked into the ham, not waiting for a reply. At least, not until he had filled his belly.
‘I’m Freedom Stubbs.’
Freedom stared at Hammer, did he remember? Know him? Hate him? He could clearly recall the man as he had been, arms up in the air, swaggering in his corner all those years ago in Cardiff. The cafe owner slapped his fat thigh and went behind the counter, delving underneath for newspapers. ‘By Christ, I thought I recognized yer. Will yer look at this, this is the man that knocked out Pat Murphy just the other month.’
‘Gawd almighty, I know you, this is him that knocked me teeth down me throat, remember me always talkin’ of the bout, this is the mun that did it.’ Hammer seemed flooded with renewed energy, he was up on his feet, prancing around on the sawdust floor. Freedom had expected the old man to go for him, but there was no animosity, more hero-worship. He thudded round to stand by Freedom’s side, his big fist came down on the shoulder of Freedom’s expensive overcoat and gripped it hard. ‘Now then, mun, you’ll have one hell of a bout with Micky, lemme tell you, I see ‘im box, oh, must be four, five years ago. He was just a kid, but ‘e’s got hands like
