A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Before the man could regain his balance, Mack hit him on each side of the head, left and right, then once more on the point of the chin with an uppercut that had all the force of his shoulders behind it. The Bruiser’s legs wobbled and his eyes rolled up, then he staggered back two steps and fell flat on his back.

The crowd roared their enthusiasm.

The fight was over.

Mack looked at the man on the floor and saw a ruined hulk, damaged and good for nothing. He wished he had not taken him on. Feeling deflated, he turned away.

Dermot had the dwarf in an armlock. “The little devil tried to run away,” he explained. “He wanted to cheat you of your prize. Pay up, long-legs. One pound.”

With his free hand the dwarf took a gold sovereign from a pocket inside his shirt. Scowling, he handed it to Mack.

Mack took it, feeling like a thief.

Dermot released the dwarf.

A rough-faced man in expensive clothes appeared at Mack’s side. “That was well done,” he said. “Have you fought much?”

“Now and again, down the pit.”

“I thought you might be a miner. Now listen, I’m putting on a prizefight at the Pelican in Shadwell next Saturday. If you want the chance of earning twenty pounds in a few minutes, I’ll put you up against Rees Preece, the Welsh Mountain.”

Dermot said: “Twenty pounds!”

“You won’t knock him down as quickly as you did this lump of wood, but you’ll have a chance.”

Mack looked at the Bruiser, lying in a useless heap. “No,” he said.

Dermot said: “Why the devil not?”

The promoter shrugged. “If you don’t need the money …”

Mack thought of his twin, Esther, still carrying coal up the ladders of Heugh pit fifteen hours a day, waiting for the letter that would release her from a lifetime of slavery. Twenty pounds would pay her passage to London—and he could have the money in his hand on Saturday night

“On second thought, yes,” Mack said.

Dermot clapped him on the back. “That’s me boy,” he said.

14

LIZZIE HALLIM AND HER MOTHER RATTLED NORTHWARD through the city of London in a hackney carriage. Lizzie was excited and happy: they were going to meet Jay and look at a house.

“Sir George has certainly changed his attitude,” said Lady Hallim. “Bringing us to London, planning a lavish wedding, and now offering to pay the rent on a London house for the two of you to live in.”

“I think Lady Jamisson has talked him around,” Lizzie said. “But only in small matters. He still won’t give Jay the Barbados property.”

“Alicia is a clever woman,” Lady Hallim mused. “All the same, I’m surprised she can still persuade her husband, after that terrible row on Jay’s birthday.”

“Perhaps Sir George is the type who forgets a quarrel.”

“He never used to be—unless there was something in it for him. I wonder what his motive might be. There isn’t anything he wants from you, is there?”

Lizzie laughed. “What could I give him? Perhaps he just wants me to make his son happy.”

“Which I’m sure you will. Here we are.”

The carriage stopped in Chapel Street, a quietly elegant row of houses in Holborn—not as fashionable as Mayfair or Westminster, but less expensive. Lizzie got down from the carriage and looked at number twelve. She liked it right away. There were four stories and a basement, and the windows were tall and graceful. However, two of the windows were broken and the number 45 was crudely daubed on the gleaming black-painted front door. Lizzie was about to comment when another carriage drew up and Jay jumped out.

He was wearing a bright blue suit with gold buttons, and a blue bow in his fair hair: he looked good enough to eat. He kissed Lizzie’s lips. It was a rather restrained kiss, as they were in a public street, but she relished it and hoped for more later. Jay handed his mother down from the carriage then knocked on the door of the house. “The owner is a brandy importer who has gone to France for a year,” he said as they waited.

An elderly caretaker opened the door. “Who broke the windows?” Jay said immediately.

“The hatters, it was,” the man said as they stepped inside. Lizzie had read in the newspaper that the people who made hats were on strike, as were the tailors and grinders.

Jay said: “I don’t know what the damn fools think they’ll achieve by smashing respectable people’s windows.”

Lizzie said: “Why are they on strike?”

The caretaker replied: “They want better wages, miss, and who can blame them, with the price of a four-penny loaf gone up to eightpence farthing? How is a man to feed his family?”

“Not by painting ‘45’ on every door in London,” Jay said gruffly. “Show us the house, man.”

Lizzie wondered about the significance of the number 45, but she was more interested in the house. She went through the building excitedly throwing back curtains and opening windows. The furniture was new and expensive, and the drawing room was a wide, light room with three big windows at each end. The place had the musty smell of an uninhabited building, but it needed only a thorough cleaning, a lick of paint and a supply of linen to make it delightfully habitable.