AT THE KNIGHT'S GARTER

An overnight stop en route to Skegness.

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY -4

AT THE KNIGHT’S GARTER

At the end of a long journey that seemed to consist more of skirting pot-holes by either going round them or crashing into them, the message bellowed by Driver David Wasp from his seat up above was more than welcome.

“We’re approaching our overnight stop at the Knight’s Garter,” he called, “in Brumpton,” he added by way of precision.

Back in the days when the events described in this history occurred, Brumpton was little more than a sleepy hamlet and a watering hole cum inn, pompously called the Knight’s Garter. The main industry, indeed the only industry, was agriculture, and that’s an industry that wears its workers to the bone when the season is busy and half-starves them when it isn’t. And what both worked-to-the-bone labourers as well as half-starved labourers most require is access to pint after pint of top notch ale and a hearty atmosphere in which to consume it.

So the Knight’s Garter was a house in which many men and a few brave women gathered and sat or stood in small groups, discussing the latest wars, or what they knew of them, which in terms of fact was very little and weeks out of date. But that didn’t matter. After all, opinions are opinions and don’t have to have any foundation in the real world, especially when they are driven by that typically British combination of alcohol and comradeship.

But in addition to being a place of recuperation for the agrarian locals, The Knight’s Garter was a coaching Inn, with rooms for travellers who find themselves crossing the broad and largely undeveloped swathes of English countryside. And such visitors were welcome: they added to the coffers of the neighbourhood and allowed the landlord to forgive his poorer locals the odd debt as long as it was less than a shilling and the result of the consumption of his less palatable ale which otherwise might have to be flushed away.

“I’ll pull up in the yard and then go and see what the landlord wants us to do,” continued Dave. “The chances are he’s allocated a few rooms for us to lay our weary heads for the night, and there will be a parlour set out for our evening meal, which is included in the fare you paid. Now, if you wait here I’ll pop inside and return with full instructions ere long.”

Ere long turned out to be almost an hour, a jolly hour in which their thirsty driver quaffed a jug of ale, joked with half a dozen locals about the cost of turnips and wild rabbits, and spent a few secret minutes closeted with the landlord’s buxom wife, whom he already knew as a consequence of being a coach driver using this stop as frequently as he could. Not that it need be suggested that there was anything improper in the closeting. He was a married man to a beautiful and caring wife and would do nothing to risk that, and anyway the landlord’s eyes never left his good well-breasted wife for more than the odd moment. No, the closeting was on account of arrangements being made concerning profit that might be made from the artifice of two local ladies.

“I have details,” he said on his return, and he burped, filling the coach with the aroma of semi-digested ale. “The parlour for our evening meal is to the left as you walk in. There is a table with a plate of ham, sliced and salted, and some cheeses, and a dish overburdened with bread if you wish to combine meat and cheese within slices of nice warm-from-the-oven bread. Your rooms are on the first floor, there being two for you to share between you.”

“What about me?” demanded Annie Anon, “I’m a lady, I am, an’ don’t wish to have leery old drunken men gaping at my flesh as I sleep.”

“We had thought you might like to share with your sons,” replied Dave pointedly. “After all, they are your flesh and blood...”

“We’re not bunking up with that crone!” wailed Tom and Dick together. “We escaped her rotten flesh when she sold us to the owner of Surecot Colliery as servants and slaves and were adopted as replacements for his own sons, who died in the wars!”

“It weren’t that bad,” muttered Annie sullenly, “look what fine gennelmen you became.”

And they had. The greasy pole had been greasy enough for them to climb to the very top and now, as their middle years approached, they were joint owners of a very profitable concern, the original owner and their benefactor having died mysteriously whilst doing unthinkable things with a renowned lady of ill-repute.

“We’ll sort it out later,” replied Dave, more in hope than certainty. “Now come on, my travellers, and to your repast!”

The meal was plain and simple but not as bad as it might have sounded when Dave described it because it was in the interests of the publican to have return bookings from the coach company, and that would never be guaranteed if there were too many complaints. Anyway, who could possibly complain about ham and cheese with bread, washed down by copious quantities of really good ale? Nobody, I’m sure of that.

Then they joined the locals who were crowded, with many a jest and bellow, in the main bar. And because it had been rumoured in the hamlet that gentlemen from a coach were coming to stay the night, two ladies had somehow found their way into the Inn, advised by the buxom barmaid.

“There’s a seat here, gentlemen, if you don’t mind a lady’s company,” called one of the females to Tom and Dick. “Come and join me and my friend here. Her name’s Rebecca, and I’m Emma, and we’re ever such good girls.”

Tom and Dick, though wealthy by the standards of the day, were ill-equipped to deal with the more frivolous aspects of life, and they accepted the seats, genuinely pleased that they had somewhere to sit.

“Rebecca and me, we’re not bad girls really,” smiled Emma, her heaving bosom almost leaping out of any constraints she had placed beneath her outer garments.

“No, we’re really good girls,” whispered Rebecca, reaching across to Dick’s leg and giving his thigh a small but well-practised squeeze, “and we know what high class gentlemen like you like of an evening when the weather’s fine and the night’s young.”

“That we do,” confirmed Emma in an equally quiet voice, “and if you like we can take a turn down the street and I’ll show you my comfy little home where I lay my head at night.”

“And you can see mine, too,” sighed Rebecca, “I like to create beautiful things … you can see my etchings if you like. I love doing etchings, pretty little pictures taken from nature...”

“We’re both creative,” added Emma.

“And if you like you can stay for the night. I’ve plenty of room in my little cottage...” giggled Rebecca.

“And me. So have I,” smiled Emma, “and it’s real cosy...”

And that ended up being that. The two sons of Annie Anon left the Inn in the company of the only two ladies of the night that Brumpton could boast of housing, and neither man was seen until the following morning when Drive Dave Wasp was feverishly hoping they’d turn up in time for his coach to get an early start.

And one problem, at least, was solved. Annie had a room to herself whilst her two sons were comfortable and willingly being fleeced by two seductively tempting ladies and their wicked wiles.

© Peter Rogerson 26.05.18