Foreigners (7 page)

The woman coughed.

'Lichfield has turned out to be a disappointment for
me and for Frank, but I expect you can see that, right?'

I said nothing but again I looked at the squalor that
surrounded me.

'After a couple of years trying to make a living in
London, we came up here to Lichfield. Then we discovered
that my Frank had borrowed so much money from Mr
Hawkins that not only was the annuity no more, but Frank
was told that the sum of money that provided for it was
all spent. Mr Hawkins claimed to have settled his account
with my Frank. My husband's health was never that good,
then we had difficulties with the children. It was hard to
find anybody who would give us work or even welcome
us. Three years ago we moved out here to Burntwood, and
we used the last of the money to buy this cottage, but
Frank's sadness drove him to drink more and so we had
to start to let go of the doctor's pieces. We don't have
anything left. My Frank, he used to take pleasure in a spot
of fishing or cultivating a few potatoes, but even that's
gone now and look where he's landed. The Stafford
Infirmary, which isn't a place for a decent man.'

Again the woman coughed, and I deemed it an appropriate
moment to ask the question that was now sitting
somewhat impatiently on my tongue.

'Would it be possible for me to see your husband?' Mrs
Barber looked blankly at me, but said nothing. I continued
in my efforts to engage the uncultured creature. 'I understand
that Mr Barber's health may not be perfect, but an
audience, however brief, would assist me greatly with my
biographical sketch.' I paused, unsure whether the dull
woman was sensible of my words. 'I would appreciate your
assistance, if at all possible.'

After what appeared to be an age, the woman nodded
briefly and said she would conduct me to the infirmary,
but she asked if first it might interest me to see the schoolroom.
Clearly this is what she desired, and so I rose to
my feet and followed both her and the mongrel through
a plain door and into a darkened room. Books and papers
were strewn all about, but it was unclear exactly how many
pupils still considered this to be a place of learning that
they might visit on a daily basis. Mrs Barber drew back
the curtains to let a little light into the room, but the illumination
served only to highlight the squalor of the place.
Just as I was beginning to feel that precious time was being
wasted on this gloomy ruin, the child began to cry.
Gathering the gamine about her skirt, Mrs Barber
announced that it was some months now since her Frank
had been forced by ill-health to abandon teaching, but she
attempted to attend to those pupils who still wished to
learn, although she did confess that her own learning was
somewhat rudimentary. As we made ready to leave, I cast
my eyes around the dismal chamber and concluded that
this place had probably not been used as a schoolroom,
or as anything else, for the greater part of a year, and the
morose English woman's claims to be, in the absence of
her husband, a replacement teacher of some description
were undoubtedly exaggerated.

I soon discovered the Stafford Workhouse Infirmary to
be a place of great misery, as opposed to a haven of rest
and recovery for those who were temporarily ailing. As the
carriage came slowly to a halt by the tall oak doors, I
noticed that the infirmary boasted a stony black façade,
and the grounds all about were entirely treeless, which
created a most despondent atmosphere. Mrs Barber and
her child led the way into the vaulted interior, and they
moved quickly along a seemingly endless corridor as though
hurrying to an appointment. Then the grey-haired woman
stopped outside of a rough-hewn door that was partially
ajar, but through which I was able to spy a long row of
tightly packed and fully occupied beds.

'Frank's in there at the end. The last bed but one. We
can wait here until you've finished your talking with him.'

I was somewhat surprised by Betsy Barber's reluctance
to enter the cheerless chamber and introduce me to her
husband, but I imagined that perhaps there was some rift
between them that I was not sensible of. Or perhaps she
was simply fearful of once again encountering her husband
in such a pitiful situation. On entering the miserable place,
I decided that it was quite probably the latter reason, for
I could not imagine any wife who would be content to
gaze upon a loved one who had been reduced to such
lamentable circumstances. Most of the patients appeared
to be quietly suffering from grave maladies that would
soon carry them off, while one or two thrashed about as
though trying to free themselves from imaginary leashes,
and as they gyrated they howled like beasts. I could see
no sign of a physician, but I was soon accosted by an
attendant who offered me a sponge soaked in vinegar which
I immediately pressed to my nostrils for protection.
Thereafter, I made my way to the bed as directed and was
somewhat alarmed to see the tortuously aged face of a
man I had not seen for sixteen years. Blacky's eyes were
fastened tightly shut, but once I sat on the edge of the
cot – there being no other place for me to deposit myself
– he soon opened his peepers and stared up at me as
though unable to properly discern with whom he had an
audience.

'Do you remember me, Mr Barber?' As soon as I asked
this question I felt foolish, for why should the negro commit
to memory knowledge of a man he had not encountered
for nearly two decades? It was a somewhat presumptuous
enquiry on my part and I regretted that I had allowed it
to pass my lips, but to his great credit Francis Barber did
not seem at all troubled by my impertinence.

'Forgive me,' he whispered, 'but my mind is weak.' He
paused and blinked vigorously, as though trying to regard
me anew. I could see now that the man was toothless, and
his decrepitude was far advanced. 'Sir, I am sorry that you
should discover me in this state of disrepair.'

I assured him that there was no reason for him to
apologise, and that it was I who should be begging his
forgiveness for this unannounced intrusion. I explained that
it was the woman he called 'wife' who had suggested that
I might visit, and who had subsequently conveyed me to
this place, and he simply nodded as though he had already
guessed that this must be the case. Again his eyes closed,
and I looked around at the other patients in the room,
most of whom, like this negro, appeared to be idling close
to death. And then I turned my attention back to Francis
who, even as I sat with him, appeared to be already experiencing
life racing quickly out of his body. In fact, his
short, shallow breaths suggested that he was merely lingering
at the door to the next world. A few moments passed, and
then Dr Johnson's negro once more opened his eyes and
a thin smile crept across his black face.

'I wonder,' he said 'if perhaps I have disappointed my
master. Have you come to this place to accuse me of this
crime?' The negro paused and gathered his thoughts. 'My
master placed a great deal of faith in me that I might
resist temptation, do you know this? Towards the end he
often called me to his bedside and asked me to pray with
him. He never failed to point out appropriate passages in
the scriptures, for he feared that my nature was too weak
and that I might misuse all that he was about to bestow
upon me. He feared that some men might take advantage
of my character and so we prayed together that I would
find strength and not succumb to my fondness for drink
and frivolity. My master and myself, we often prayed
together, the two of us, long into the night.' The negro
paused and gasped for breath. I instinctively reached down
and clasped his black hand, and eventually his breathing
subsided, but I chose not to release this poor man's fingers.
'I lack dignity. Even coming to Lichfield was a fulfilment
of my master's wishes.' I looked at Johnson's dishevelled
negro, but I could find no words. 'My master provided
me with many advantages yet I still find myself in these
circumstances. I sincerely wish that he had used me differently.'
The negro looked nervously all about himself.
'Perhaps,' he continued, 'I would have been better served
committing to a life at sea, or returning to my native
Jamaica. Perhaps it would have been more profitable for
me to have established for myself the limits of my abilities
rather than having them blurred by kindness, dependence,
and my own indolence. And when presented with
real liberty—' He stopped abruptly, then sighed. 'Well,
look upon me, sir. Look liberty in the face. What see
you?' Suddenly, with this question, his eyes temporarily
brightened, but then without waiting for my answer they
fell shut again, like a falling curtain, and this time it was
clear that they would not reopen again this day. At least
not for me. Dr Johnson's negro had withdrawn from the
world, and I was left alone with his pitiful words ringing
loudly in my ears. Surely liberty had never before appeared
to any man in such a state of mournful ruination. It was
true, this negro had most likely been destroyed by the
unnatural good fortune of many years of keeping company
with those of a superior rank, thus depriving him of any
real understanding of his own true status in the world. I
felt that I could answer his final question with some confidence,
even though he would remain insensible to my
thoughts on the matter. Yes, the black should have left our
country and journeyed back to Jamaica or to Africa with
Mr Sharp's expedition. In fact, all ebony personages should
do so for I was now convinced that English air is clearly
not suitable for negro lungs and soon reduces these creatures
to a state of childish helplessness. In this sad, wretched
moment, I had received confirmation of the wisdom of
my own intention to invest in the Province of Freedom,
and thereby help prevent this spectacle of negro abasement
from becoming endemic in our land.

In the evening I dined alone at the Three Crowns. The
innkeeper had timidly requested permission to join my
table once I had completed my meal, and I agreed to his
entreaty for I now understood that my acquiescence would
enable him to temporarily escape the tedious presence of
his wife. In the morning I would be returning to London,
so this would probably mark my final exchange with this
weak man, whom I had already corrected with regard to
the status of Francis Barber's mortality. The innkeeper
poured freely from what he termed a 'special' bottle of
French claret, and he once again apologised for his error,
but I assured him that the man's wife, though puzzled,
appeared to have taken no discernible offence. The
innkeeper had hardly received my words before he sought
intelligence as to just how far Mr Barber had fallen from
the lower rungs of the social ladder. I smiled back at this
odious man, but resolved to say nothing that might assuage
his curiosity. The situation soon became uncomfortable,
and my host quickly changed tack, and asked after the
negro's wife. I answered that she appeared to be experiencing
difficulties providing for her children, for clearly
the schoolhouse had been neglected since the onset of Mr
Barber's illness. I reminded this foolish citizen of Lichfield
of Dr Johnson's conviction that a decent provision for the
poor, particularly those in the final season of their lives,
is the truest test of civilisation, and I left the rest to his
conscience. The effect of the wine had begun to diminish
this man's speech and I feared that it had also made inroads
into what remained of his judgement. I could sense the
deep desire on the part of the innkeeper to ask again after
the Jamaican, but my mind was made up. The fall of a
man is not a pretty picture to behold, but the spectacle
of an individual attempting to hide his indifference behind
a thin mask of concern is an altogether unacceptable sight.

I looked around as the inkeeper's 'guests' continued to
drink like horses and grow increasingly shrill. Some among
them began singing and pulling caps, while others stirred
themselves as though preparing to dance a jig. Who in
Lichfield had truly tried to help the faithful friend and
servant of the city's foremost son? While I was sure that
Francis Barber's own failings had led him to death's door
in that inhospitable infirmary, I was also convinced that
others had conspired in his demise by simply standing to
the side and looking on. Dr Johnson's favourite, deprived
of the protection of his master, and exposed to the hostile
apathy of first London, and then Lichfield, had lost his
way. A biographical sketch in the
Gentlemen's Magazine
would
most likely be met with the same combination of fascination
and disdain that had blighted the pathetic negro's
life. Climbing to my unsteady feet, I bade my host a good
night before abandoning him to the enmity of his wife. I
carried a candle to my room where I anticipated a few
fitful hours of half-sleep before clambering aboard a
carriage back to London. I already understood that this
night would be long and difficult, and that it was most
likely that my dreams would be populated by multiple
sightings of a small Jamaican boy named Quashey, who
would no doubt be helplessly extending an arm in my
direction. I resolved that in the morning I would tarry a
while at Burntwood and, without comment, present his
English wife with Dr Johnson's watch. Whatever she might
obtain from the local pawnbroker would go some way
towards feeding her irregular children. The good doctor
would, I felt sure, approve of his handsome watch being
disposed of for this purpose.

On the morning of 9 July, 1951, a twenty-three-year-old
mixed-race man stepped off a train at London's Paddington
Station and looked all around at the cavernous vastness
of the place. The youngster had visited London before,
but today there was something auspicious about his arrival
in the great capital city for the young man's name was on
everybody's lips. Randolph Turpin was born, and had
grown up, in the Midlands town of Leamington Spa, a
place which, until the rediscovery of the town's mineral
springs in the late eighteenth century, was little more than
a tiny village called the Leamington Priors. The visit of
Queen Victoria in 1838, to discover for herself the nature
of the healing and restorative powers of the waters, resulted
in the town being honoured and renamed Royal Leamington
Spa. However, by the mid-twentieth century there were
two Leamingtons; the elegant Georgian and Regency
Leamington, which was a haven for the genteel and the
elderly, and then an altogether less attractive working-class
enclave. Turpin was a product of the less impressive face
of the town. As the train which had deposited Turpin, his
older brothers Dick and Jackie, and Turpin's manager, the
reliable and strait-laced Mr George Middleton, continued
to belch smoke, the four men stared at the press of people.
A large crowd made up of journalists and the general
public in equal numbers gawped back in their direction.
The train was half an hour late, but Turpin's reception
committee would have waited all day if necessary. A flashbulb
popped, and a newspaperman's voice could be heard
above the roar of the station. 'Randy!' And then another
bulb popped, and another voice was raised, and then the
crowd began to surge up the platform towards the new
arrivants. The coloured brothers looked anxiously at each
other, while George Middleton looked beyond the rush
of people and tried to find his contact. And then, just as
the crowd began to swarm around the Midlanders, Mr
Jack Solomons appeared, complete with trilby and chewing
on a cigar, and he restored some order. 'Gentlemen, please.
Step back and give Mr Turpin some room.' The selfproclaimed
king of British boxing slipped a paternal arm
around the shoulders of young Randy, and took charge
of the situation. Jack Solomons was a man who, in the
parlance of the times, liked to talk fast and plenty.
'Gentlemen, you know the procedure. You'll have all the
time in the world to converse with Mr Turpin later on.
Now come on, please. Step aside. We don't want to wear
out the young man, do we?'

As Mr Solomons' car pulled away from in front of
Paddington Station, a few newspapermen ran alongside
the vehicle, and a lone photographer persisted in pointing
his camera at the car window and snapping away. However,
once they passed through the first set of traffic lights, the
journalists were left behind. On the train journey to
London, Turpin, his brothers, and his manager had taken
breakfast together and Randy had spilled the salt. Randy
wasn't a superstitious man, far from it, but the look of
alarm that crossed Mr Middleton's face gave him pause
for thought. He had watched as his manager took a pinch
of salt and quickly tossed it over his left shoulder. As they
now sped towards the West End of London, Randy stole
a quick glance at Mr Middleton, who was staring calmly
out of the car window, but his manager betrayed his inner
anxiety by the fact that he was biting down hard against
his bottom lip. By the time Mr Solomons' car entered
Piccadilly Circus the crowds in the street had begun to
multiply, so much so that the driver was forced to slow
almost to a halt. Suddenly, it looked as though it might
not be possible to get much closer to Jack Solomons'
gymnasium and offices at 41 Great Windmill Street, but
two policemen on horseback began to clear a way through
the crowds and inch by inch the car made its way forward
until it was able to deposit them all at the rear entrance
to the building. However, even here crowds of autograph
hunters were waiting, but Turpin could tell by the hurried
manner with which Mr Middleton and Mr Solomons kept
glancing at each other that there would be no time to
fraternise with his fans. They both wanted Turpin calm
and settled for tomorrow's date with destiny, and the
legendary Sugar Ray Robinson.

The following lunchtime, Turpin's opponent, along with
his retinue of handlers and hangers-on, arrived at the
'Palace of Jack', as Solomons liked to call his gymnasium
and suite of offices. Sugar Ray Robinson was born Walker
Smith in Ailey, Georgia, in 1921, and he grew up in Detroit,
Michigan. As a teenage amateur he won the Golden Gloves
featherweight title, and people were already talking about
him as a potential great champion. However, just how
'great' he would become none of them could ever have
imagined. He made his official professional debut in 1940
as a welterweight, and he soon won the 147 lb world title.
He then stepped up to fight as a middleweight and he
also won the world title at 160 lb. By 1951, Sugar Ray
Robinson had fought 133 professional fights and lost only
once, to Jake La Motta. However, this was a defeat that
he soon avenged in a rematch. Ray Robinson was a worldwide
celebrity whose very name conjured up notions of
both invincibility and flamboyance, and his fame was such
that only a few weeks earlier, on 25 June, 1951, he had
appeared on the cover of
Time
magazine. Having dispatched
all of his American opponents, Robinson had recently
taken to trailing Europe for fighters who would provide
him with big paydays and easy victories, and when
Robinson toured he did so in style. He drove a huge
flamingo-pink Cadillac convertible and he stayed in only
the swankiest accommodation. His entourage of boosters
included his manager, his doctor, a golf pro, a hairdresser,
a spiritual adviser, and a midget comic, or 'good humour'
man, named Jimmy Karoubi, among many others. Awed
by legendary tales of the Sugarman's extraordinary skill,
and by the evidence of the maestro's oozing confidence,
his opponents were generally beaten before they had even
ducked their heads through the ropes. Very few doubted
that Robinson was, pound for pound, the greatest fighter
who had ever lived, and at thirty he was at the peak of
his career.

It was Jack Solomons, Britain's pre-eminent promoter,
who had persuaded Robinson to add a final date to his
latest European tour and cross the English Channel in
order that he might fight young Turpin
and
put his world
middleweight title on the line. Solomons was born in 1900
in the East End of London, but this Yiddish-speaking
cockney was not the most popular man in British boxing,
combining as he did the 'talents' of thuggishness and business
cunning. However, Solomons was a man who could
get matches made. Robinson was undertaking a series of
non-title exhibition fights in Zurich, Antwerp, Liege, Berlin,
and Turin, and initially the American had little interest in
risking his title in London against an unknown, unless, of
course, the money was right. Solomons travelled to Paris,
where Robinson's entourage was resting before moving on
to Belgium, and he asked Robinson to name his price.
Robinson laughed and told him '$100,000 and not one
cent less', and a disappointed Solomons returned to
London. This sum, which was the equivalent of nearly
£30,000, was unheard of at a time when the vast majority
of British workers earned less than £5 a week. However,
Solomons was a man who relished a challenge, and having
been in the company of the great Sugar Ray he was now
more determined than ever to make this match. Solomons
worked and reworked his figures, and then persuaded
Turpin's manager, George Middleton – a man who he
described as 'one of the most reasonable men in the world
to do business with' – to accept £12,000, which was less
than half of what Robinson would earn. Finally, he
returned to Paris with contracts in hand, and a smiling
Sugar Ray Robinson signed to fight Britain's own Randolph
Turpin for the world middleweight crown. Jack Solomons
would be promoting the biggest bout in British boxing
history, and the great Sugar Ray Robinson would be
bringing his flamingo-pink Cadillac and flamboyant
personality to post-war Britain.

Soon after Robinson's arrival, the Savoy Hotel in London
had asked the American to leave, for the masses of fans
that daily thronged the lobby and pavements outside of
the hotel were making it impossible for the management
to run the Savoy with the grace and decorum that their
regular customers had come to expect. As a result the Sugar
Ray Robinson party decamped to the Star and Garter
public house in Windsor where the proprietors made every
effort to accommodate the eccentricities of their coloured
guests. On the morning of 10 July, Sugar Ray Robinson
and his team departed for central London and the weighin.
Once they reached Piccadilly Circus, Robinson's party
were taken aback by the size of the crowds that had gathered
in anticipation of the day's events. Crowds like this
had not greeted him in France or in Belgium, or in any
of the other places where he had displayed his flashy talents
on his recent tour. It was clear that the somewhat depressed
people of England, in their still bombed-out country, were
in need of some kind of glamorous boost, and this being
the case Sugar Ray was happy to provide this for them.

The weigh-in was scheduled to take place at just after
noon at 'Solomons Promotions', and this would mark the
first time that Turpin would set eyes upon the legendary
Sugar Ray Robinson. Turpin had once again struggled to
make his way through the crowds and into Jack Solomons'
gym, but the Leamington man understood that although
people were thrilled that a British lad was getting a chance
to 'have a go' at Robinson, the vast majority of those in
the streets, and the lucky ones packed into the gym, were
eager for a glimpse of the hotshot American. His involuntary
exile to the Star and Garter pub in Windsor had
deprived Londoners of the chance of seeing the world
champion and his entourage promenading through London,
or going through their paces in Hyde Park. This would
be their first and last chance to ogle the American before
the title bout, and most London fight fans seemed keen
to seize it. As Turpin stood beside the scales and waited,
he remained calm and he appeared, to those who looked
on, to be patient and focused. As noise and confusion
continued to swell all around him, Turpin decided to sit
down and stare at the ground between his feet and ignore
the shouted questions from the mob of journalists.

Most of the sportswriters were convinced that Jack
Solomons, and his 'yes man', George Middleton, had, in
their quest for money, foolishly overmatched the promising
coloured fighter with a man who was not only going to
roundly wallop him, but a man who might well inflict
serious and permanent damage on the youngster. The bookmakers'
odds of seven to one on for a Robinson victory,
and twenty to one against Turpin being on his feet at the
end of the contest, suggested a forgone conclusion at best,
and at worst a cynical attempt on the part of Solomons
to cash in on Robinson's brief presence in Europe by
throwing a dusky English lamb to the slaughter. Even if
the coloured lad from Leamington did manage to stay out
of Robinson's reach for the early part of the fight, he had
never gone beyond eight rounds in his life, while Robinson
had regularly fought fifteen-round pitched battles against
American men of steel. But this did not deter the public
who, once the fight had been announced, snapped up the
18,000 tickets to the Exhibition Hall at Earls Court in less
than a week. Jack Solomons soon realised that he could
have sold twice as many tickets, which ranged from ten
guineas at ringside, to one guinea in the rafters, and doubled
the £80,000 gate by putting the fight in a larger venue.
Robinson versus Turpin was not only the highest profile
fight in British boxing history, it was destined to be the
biggest single sporting event ever held in Britain. Young
Randolph Turpin's part was already written: to take his
punishment like a man and put up a good show, and the
unusual nature of his preparation suggested that he fully
understood the script.

A year earlier, in the summer of 1950, Turpin, together
with his brother Jackie, moved temporarily from
Leamington Spa to set up training camp in Wales. The
fight with Robinson had not yet been made, but Turpin
had got it into his head that by moving away from the
distractions of his home town he could better concentrate
on preparing himself for the business of championship
boxing. A Wales-based businessman named Leslie Thomas
Salts had recently purchased Gwrych Castle near Llandudno,
which had been originally constructed in 1819 and over the
years had fallen into some disrepair. However, it still
remained a magnificent listed property with a view of the
Irish Sea, a famous marble staircase, dining rooms, smoking
rooms, a billiard room, and over 200 acres of land that
included stables and extensive lawns. Intending to open
the place to the public as 'the Showplace of Wales', Salts
had installed rides and attractions for children, but it
occurred to Salts that having professional boxers training
and sparring on his grounds, and charging the public to
watch, might well be a further source of income. And so
it proved. His first boxer was the British heavyweight, Bruce
Woodcock, but Salts soon realised that the amenable and
charismatic Turpin would most probably be a better
drawing card. Turpin was initially overwhelmed by his first
sighting of the huge, stone-walled fiefdom, with its acres
of open, rolling hills, and the castle presiding high up on
a hillside. The spectacular estate possessed a verdant
grandeur that exceeded anything Turpin had ever seen or
imagined. He was safe in this private kingdom, in which
he was the prince to Salts' king, and he could temporarily
escape his upbringing, his past, and imagine himself to be
a man free of the considerable pressure of being obligated
to family and friends. However, Turpin's manager, George
Middleton, was not happy with his fighter retreating to
Wales for he did not regard Leslie Salts as a straight shooter,
but he knew that once Randolph Turpin had made up his
mind there really was little point in arguing with him.