SKEGNESS AT LAST

After a fascinating journey in two parts the travellers in their coach arrive at their destination - Skegness.

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY -5

SKEGNESS AT LAST

The coachload of travellers was late leaving the Knight’s Garter Inn on account of the previous night descending into revelry and drunkenness well into the early hours of the morning.

Tom and Dick weren’t there, of course, they were both exploring the verdant countryside that was the flesh and quivering excitement of two ladies of the night who had generously decided to provide them with board and lodgings for the rest of the day in return for certain favours and a dollop of coin. They provided both favours and coin with a willingness beyond belief, and had they been innocent citizens before meeting with Emma and Rebecca they were far from innocent when they left with lighter wallets and sloppy grins on their pudgy faces. For them the holiday had already been worth what they’d paid for it, and there was, according to rumour, more to come.

But they were happy, and in this life that’s all that really counts. At least that’s what they thought.

It was almost half way through the morning by the time they set off. A disgruntled Driver David Wasp had dragged Tom and Dick from the boudoirs of their respective ladies of the night, Harry had been almost roused from a drunken stupor and poured into his seat on the coach, whereupon he sunk again into a mindless sleep, dreaming of this or that, neither of which he would ever recall however hard he tried.

Annie retook her seat up on top, happy to be up high and in the fresh air now that the sun was blazing down and those passengers down below who were not comatose were already complaining about the heat.

“We’ve got to make better speed than these wretched roads will allow,” grumbled the driver, “they’re no better than ruts and holes, and the wheels of this coach won’t take many of them for long.”

The horses, though, were well rested and anxious to complete the journey. Dave was sure they knew exactly where they were going and barely had to guide them, so he settled back on his seat and stared around at the green and brown shades of growth and excrement which peppered the landscape, making odd comments to Annie about the natural glories that he thought he saw as they hurtled along.

The team of horses was intelligent enough to avoid the worst that the unmade road had to offer and by noon they had covered a fair part of the journey.

“We’ll take a break at the next service station,” called Dave from above, and a series of barely conscious grunts assured him that those capable of hearing him had heard him.

The next service station was a rather grand affair run by Tab, a scallywag with an eye for profit. It consisted of a shack perched at a crazy angle on the hard mud ground next to a trickling stream that ran along the edge of the road and disappeared into a rocky chasm not far away. Fuel was available (at a price) in the form of bales of hay for the horses and pottage for the passengers, and there was only a small charge for water if it was requested in small quantities.

“We’ll have twenty minutes,” ordered Dave.

“My mouth tastes like a frog’s scrotum,” muttered a now almost awake Harry, sticking his tongue out so that everyone had a chance to see what a frog’s scrotum might actually look like.

“That’s disgusting,” muttered Annie, having climbed down from her elevated seat. “Put it away!”

“I need a gallon of water,” croaked the owner of the frog’s scrotum.

“That'll be threepence then,” grinned Tab, the service station owner, rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of a sudden influx of unexpected profit.

“Water’s free!” objected Harry, somehow stretching his thin lips to form a gurning scowl, “it comes down from the skies as rain! It splashes everywhere and even wets a traveller through if he gets caught in it! It’s a plain nuisance and no more, and here you are charging threepence for it!”

“It’s a lot of water, is a gallon,” growled Tab, “most folk only want a pint at best, and some are happy with half a pint.”

“I’ll have a pint then,” decided Harry, failing to work out what an eighth part of threepence might be and prepared to accept whatever Tab charged, just needing the water to quench the worst thirst he’d had since last time he’d been on a bender.

“That’s a ha’penny,” growled Tab, and added in order to make things perfectly clear, “buying a gallon gets you a discount for quantity!”

Driver Wasp saw to his horses, filling their mobile feeding bags with fresh hay, and after the allocated twenty minutes they set off again.

The day drifted by in a sweet serenity of blue skies and hot sunshine, and they made first class progress, the road having been repaired to a certain extent by the courteous burgers of Skegness who enjoyed welcoming visitors to their seaside attractions and were well aware that a good road pays dividends in the long run.

The village of Skegness (some might even have called it a hamlet) might have been small, but there was about it an entrepreneurship of spirit that was exemplified by the notoriety of their destination, the infamous Maison de L'amour with it’s owner, Countess Hope. She it was who had seen a gap in the market, and had subsequently recruited a few (a very few bearing in mind the small population of Skegness at the time) young men and women to entertain visitors.

There had been protests, of course, and the church in particular had been adamant that making money from human frailty was infra dig and even sinful, and a petition had been circulated, but as it had only one signature (that of Bishop Pike) on account that he was the only one literate enough to write at the time, and simple crosses as a means of identifying intent were considered too easy to forge on such an important thing as the consideration of morality, and the protest petered out along with the petition.

Anyway, this history aside, the coach made excellent time, not a single wheel or axle needed repair and as evening began to fall and the sun lowered itself in the sky, it trundled, pulled by six weary stallions, into Skegness itself.

The driver had been there before. It was a well-loved destination for folk from his town and he’d driven parties several times each year, so he knew exactly where to pull up. The horses also seemed well-briefed as he barely had to issue a single instruction to them before they sighed in unison and stopped at the front entrance of the Maison de L'amour.

“We’re here,” he called to those in the coach below, “just wait a moment and I’ll pop in and let them know that we’ve arrived.”

But he didn’t have to do anything.

No sooner had he hauled himself down to the ground than an apparition appeared at the door to the Maison de L'amour. Dressed in so many feathers it was almost possible to believe she might be wicked cross between human and eagle after a session of inter-species naughtiness, she stood, leaning on a door post and waving happily.

“Crikey,” breathed Tom to Dick, “take a look at that if you will! We can even see her ankles! What a turn on! What a lovely turn on!”

TO BE CONTINUED...

© Peter Rogerson 27.05.18