Micky Morgan, dressed in the same way as Freedom, stood with his corner men and trainer at the far end of the room. His back was to the entrance, but as the murmur of voices died down he knew his opponent had arrived. He didn’t turn, but his back straightened, like an animal sensing danger.
‘Gentlemen, to the scales, please.’
Micky turned slowly, eyes down, refusing to look at Freedom as they were led to the scales. Micky took off his robe first and stepped up. The two officials looked at the pointer, conferred with each other and pushed the weights along the scale bar as Ed tried to get a look over their shoulders to see what weight Morgan was carrying.
‘The champion weighing in, gentlemen, at thirteen stone ten pounds, standing at six feet one and a half inches.’
Still without even a flicker of a glance at Freedom, Micky stepped down, and his trainer immediately replaced his robe around his shoulders. Ed gave him a clinical, professional appraisal. The man was in terrific shape, his skin taut, his body muscular, and his shoulders were slightly concave — good, hunched, boxer’s shoulders. There was no sign of the cut he had taken over his eye in his last championship bout, it seemed completely healed. His nose was flat, eyes hooded, and there was a slight puffiness just below the brows. One of his front teeth was missing, and one of his ears was larger than the other. As he pulled his robe around his shoulders, Ed could see his massive hands, the flat, gnarled knuckles.
The fight was by no means going to be easy, Ed knew Micky looked confident, and Ed knew he was purposely refusing to look in Freedom’s direction.
‘Would the contender please step on the scales.’
It was Freedom’s turn, and off came his robe as he stepped on to the scales. The officials moved the weights, checking carefully, and Micky now watched closely. Freedom was one hell of a size, and his skin was tawny, unlike Micky’s which was whiter-than-white. As the marker on the measuring stick was lowered to Freedom’s head, Micky could see he was well over six feet tall.
‘The contender, gentlemen, weighs in at fourteen stone, one pound, eight ounces, standing at six feet four inches.’
‘He’s a ruddy Red Indian, look at the hair on ‘im, halfway down ‘is back.’
Both boxers were taken back to their dressing rooms, and an hour later they were called in to the conference room. The champion was applauded as he entered. He was wearing a cheap, brown pinstriped suit, a white shirt and tie, and he was carrying a brown trilby hat. He took his seat on the platform beside his trainer and promoter, Lord Livermore, who wore a black coat with an astrakhan collar and smoked a fat Havana cigar. Sir Charles, as immaculate as ever, was talking quietly to him, and shook Micky’s hand when they were introduced.
Ed ushered Freedom into the room and everyone turned to look at him. He did not warrant applause, and Ed whispered for him to take the seat next to Sir Charles. He stepped on to the platform and sat down, fingering his collar and straightening the jacket of his new, single-breasted suit, tailored in soft dove grey. Carrying Freedom’s fur-collared coat, Ed inched his way in behind them and sat down, worried about falling because the leg of his chair was precariously near the edge of the platform. Lord Livermore held his cigar in front of his face and smirked to Sir Charles about his snazzily dressed boxer.
‘How many rounds do you think it’ll go, Micky?’
Smiling, Morgan gave a jerk of his head at Freedom and said that maybe they should ask the contender how many rounds he reckoned he could stand up for. This got a roar of laughter, and Micky posed for a solo photograph. Freedom was asked if he wanted to answer the champ’s question, but he stared blankly and remained silent.
The press requested a shot of Micky and Freedom together, and the two men rose and faced each other, Micky confident and brash, smiling his gap-toothed grin. He got no response from Freedom whose dark eyes stared back, expressionless. The photographers took their time preparing their cameras, and as they waited Micky whispered to Freedom, his voice inaudible to the rest of the room, ‘Goin’ to mark that pretty face, gyppo, goin’ to mark you, break you, gyppo, hear me, take you out in five.’
Freedom stared impassively into the champion’s face, as if he hadn’t heard the threat.
Ed’s brother had found a house for Evelyne and Freedom, further along the terrace in the same street, not five turnings away from Mrs Harris’. The previous occupants of number twelve had fallen behind with their rent, and the bailiffs had moved them out. The house had been infested with mice and bugs so they had had to scrub and disinfect everything, and call in the ratcatcher to put down poison. This was Evelyne’s first home of her own and, to the concern of all the women in the street, she had worked herself into exhaustion. Seeing her, heavily pregnant, scrubbing at the steps, had earned her the acceptance of all her neighbours. Freda and several other local women had scrubbed and washed and helped hang curtains, nail down lino, and had even brought odd bits of china to help out. They all called her Evie.
Mrs Harris was Evelyne’s first proper visitor. She came walking slowly up the road, carrying a big pot of stew. ‘ ‘Ello, lovey, I ‘ad this on when one of the kids came round, so I didn’t like to waste it … well, well, just think of it, you a neighbour! Well I never!’
Evelyne showed her round the scrubbed little house with pride. When she saw that Evie had got a gas stove, Mrs Harris went into raptures. There wasn’t a stick of furniture yet, but the curtains were lovely, and the lino was a pretty shade of green.
‘Oh, Evie love, it’s a palace, a real palace, you’ve done wonders.’
A small crowd had gathered outside, and one of the women yelled to Evelyne at the top of her voice, ‘It’s the bed arrived, yer bed’s come!’ A new bed in this street was something, and all the neighbours were agog. The mahogany headboard met with nods of approval. The bed was enormous, and the delivery men had to be helped getting it into the house.
Freedom and Evelyne went up the narrow staircase and stood looking into their bedroom. There it was in all its glory, the special-sized bed.
‘Well, I never thought I’d be a kairengo!’
Lying down on the thick mattress, Evelyne patted it for him to lie beside her. ‘What does that mean?’
He lay down and told her that a kairengo was a man who lived in a house. He stared up’ at the ceiling, and she picked up his hand, kissed it, ‘Do you not like it?’
He turned and touched her face, kissed her softly, ‘It’s what you want that’s my pleasure. Tell me, are you happy?’
She rolled over, rubbed her belly and stretched. She told him she had never been so happy in. her entire life. Up she got and swished the curtains, showing him the wooden rail, then insisted that he see everything, pulling him by the hand until, he got up off the bed.
‘This is our home, Freedom, and here, in here, this is where the baby will be. Mr Harris said he’d make me a cradle … and come on down, let me show you how the gas stove lights up. You don’t need to have the fire lit, see, you turn this tap here, and you light it like so, isn’t it lovely?’
Delighted, he watched her as she touched the walls, the lino, and then brought him her notebook to show him what kind of furniture they would save for. ‘We’ll not get anything on tick, that way we won’t get into debt, but we’ll buy it piece by piece, it’ll be so lovely.’
Freedom went back up to the bedroom. He didn’t want to spoil her happiness, couldn’t tell her the house was already weighing on him, closing in on him, and he hated it. Evelyne thought he was sleeping, but he was dreaming of the open air, the fields, riding on a wild pony. He felt her lie down beside him, and her body heat warmed him like a fire.