MAYHEM AND A MUSKET.

The coach continues its journey towards Skegness when there is an unwelcome interrution

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY - 2

MAYHEM AND A MUSKET

The coach rocked and rolled along the unmade road that lead across this proud and untidy land towards Skegness, a settlement that was little more than a fishing village with the very fragile beginnings of an enthusiasm for fun beginning to pop up here and there when this or that entrepreneur saw an opportunity for profit. But the coach was still on its way. Pot-holes and the remains of winter ruts slowed the coach down to little more than a standstill, and Driver David Wasp was getting frustrated by endless delays brought about by broken wheels, twisted axles and feeble bladders.

The two podgy men who had turfed their mother out to sit in the cold on top were muttering almost meaninglessly together in gratuitously oily voices, and a thinner, wiry man, fifties, balding, with a face that seemed to be stretched over a wrinkled skull, eyed them gloomily. Anyone glancing his way could tell he wasn’t one to see the brighter side of life.

“That was nice,” he said at last, directly to the two sons. “Yes, very nice. The creature reeked of sewerage.”

Tom, the first of the two men, nodded, and proceeded to ignore him.

“It shouldn’t be tolerated, creatures like that with no formal education and skin that’s covered in mildew and rancid old turds sharing a coach with gentlemen such as ourselves.” continued wiry Harry.

“Quite so,” acknowledged the second portly man, who had been christened Dick.

“You did well, disposing of her company, my friends. I thought of doing it myself, but your intervention saved me the effort.”

The conversation may well have continued along those lines, a wiry man doing his best to ingratiate himself with the two portly gentlemen by pouring verbal venom on their repulsive mother, but there was a sudden interruption. The coach slithered to a rocking standstill and the driver appeared, hanging from the roof and his head filling the window on the door.

“We’re under attack! Conceal your valuables and I’ll get rid of the devil!” he hissed, and proceeded to disappear back to his station in the driver’s seat above as quickly as a man of a certain weight could be expected to.

There was the sudden sound of a musket firing, a cracking sound that seemed to split the air for a moment, and it was followed by a stentorian “Your money or your life!” in what could best be described as a sexually ambivalent voice.

“Now then, young fellow, there’s no wealth here,” began David Wasp from up above, “it’s paupers riding in this ve-hick-ule, as you can tell by the withered flesh of this old woman sitting besides, me, and she’d the wealthiest of the lot of ‘em!”

“Turn out your pockets!” snarled the new comer, bobbing about on horse-back and with the face covered by a mask, the eyes barely discernible as a lock of grey hair obscured them, blown by a randy wind that had spent the day freezing the marrow of the two riding above.

“What does she mean?” asked Annie Anon, “turning out our pockets? I have no pockets, never did have, what would a soul do with pockets if she’s got nowt to put in ‘em?”

“She?” asked Driver Wasp, “this is no she! This is a desperate highwayman with guns and the will to use them, and it’s my job to protect you from the devil, or die in the attempt!”

“Nah,” laughed the old woman, “that’s no man, highway or low-way! I’d know that voice anywhere! Back home, when she came a-calling at our manor, she stole the very food from the mouths of our infants, and many died whilst she gorged herself until her face twisted with all the grub in it!”

“I don’t think so...” began the driver, “this is a desperate crook, a demon who would take what is not his just for the sake of it, and if we argue much longer he will shoot us!”

“Nah,” laughed Annie Anon, “she’s already discharged that musket of hers, and have you any idea how long it takes to load one when you’re standing on solid ground, and there she is wobbling on the back of an old pony as doesn’t think much of her! Nah, she can’t shoot us, though she would if she could! But I remember her and the way she ordered everyone about and even hanged the surgeon for being a surgeon and flogged the midwife for being a midwife! She weren’t long down our way, bless you Waspy, but she did almighty damage before she went and I had to sell my two boys ‘cause I couldn’t feed them any more, not with her stealing every morsel from their mouths and turning me from a proud wife into a beggar woman!”

“I say, what’s going on out there?” asked Harry, the wiry traveller inside the coach, “it’s past my supper time and I get excitable if my sugar levels drop too low.”

“We’re being held up by a highwayman and I advise you all to do what he says,” said David Wasp, quite rightly bearing in mind his responsibility for the well-being of his passengers.

“It ain’t no highwayman!” cane Annie’s sewerage-stained voice, “it’s that woman as came a-robbing decent folks last autumn, her with the face like a blowed-up hideous pig’s bladder as has been kicked around by nippers at play and the posh voice...”

“It is a woman,” agreed Harry. “I can see the swellings where her breasty bits must be! It’s a woman all right!”

“’Cause it is, and I can name ‘er!” laughed Annie Anon. “She came robbin’ and thievin’ and pretending to be hoity-toity, and she went by the name of Treesa Mayhem! That’s who it is! Treesa Mayhem! A more than common thief and vandal! And mayhem’s what she takes with her everywhere she goes, mayhem and death and disease! Go on, driver, shoot her! You’ve got a blunderbuss! Put some lead into her and make her squeal!”

“Curse you, old woman!” raged the highwayman who was really a highway-woman, “I’ll get you one day, and be warned! I have powerful friends in the big City!”

And before David Wasp, who was a gentle soul and never willing to actually shoot people could aim his blunderbuss and pull it’s trigger, she was spurring her old horse up and trying to disappear into the distance in a cloud of dust. But things don’t always turn out as the person intends, and that old horse, acknowledging its own age, dropped dead after a dozen shaky paces and Treesa Mayhem had to run away, unsupported by her beast and with a much less inspiring cloud of dust.

“Them’s not the best shoes for walking in the wild,” cackled Annie Anon, rubbing her gnarled old fingers together.

“Well done, old woman,” leered the portly Tom.

“But don’t think it entitles you ride up here with us gentle folks, mother,” added Dick.

“You stay with me,” advised David Wasp. “See, the sun’s coming out and we’re due to be warmed by it, and truth to tell, when the weather’s scorching it gets mighty uncomfortable in the cabin down below. So onward it is, and tomorrow we should arrive at the Maison de L'amour, the roads and pot-holes willing! But first we’ll have an overnight break at Brumpton, at the Knight’s Garter!”

TO BE CONTINUED

© Peter Rogerson 24.05.18