UNDERWEAR AND GOLD

Dave makes a vital discovery on Skegness beach...

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY - 6

UNDERWEAR AND GOLD

Annie Anon stood on the golden sands of Skegness beach, her naked feet clutching the damp sand where the sea had been rolling minutes earlier before the tide started withdrawing. The sun was shining down like she had never known it, not in the grimy, smoke-laden atmosphere of her home town where the wheels of the mills meant everything and the lives of the people meant just about nothing.

“This is nice,” she said quietly to David Wasp, who was standing next to her and equally enjoying the salt fragrance of the ocean as it wafted over them both. The only thing missing was his lovely wife, and he vowed there and then that he would take him with him one day, that he would. They could have fun together… He sighed as he traced her name in the sand...

They had arrived at the seaside hamlet of Skegness the previous evening and been welcomed by Countess Hope (so called, though others knew her by a very different name) and were shown their rooms at the Maison de L’amour where there was every luxury under the sun, including fragranced candles that, she explained, were not solely provided as a means of illumination during hours of darkness. Not one of them could begin to understand what other function such items might assist with, though Annie had the shadow of an idea at the back of her mind. But then, Annie had lived for more years than most, and largely on her own.

Now it was next day, they had been welcomed amid an excess of sweet fragrances and sweeter wines (all French) and needed to clear their heads next morning in order to enjoy further teasing of their senses for a second night.

“Let’s paddle,” he said, wanting to feel the freshness of the water on his feet.

“I can’t do that! You might see my ankles!” she protested.

“That I might,” he agreed, “but so what?”

“It ain’t proper for a gennelman to set his peepers on a lass’s ankles,” she sniffed.

“So they say, but to my mind that’s all so much tosh,” he muttered, “what is there about a girl’s (or old woman’s) ankles that needs so much protection from the peeping eyes of us menfolk?”

“Why, sir, you must know!” she replied, somewhat heatedly. “It does things to a man’s blood, do the sight of a well-turned ankle! It stirs the menfolk to dirty thoughts and dirtier deeds, and we women need protection from them!”

“I can just about see your ankles where you stand,” he pointed out, “and I’m not driven to wild excesses and romantic rhymes by them!”

She looked down at her feet, and it was true. In order to prevent the odd wave from lapping against her long skirt she was holding it inches above her ankles and it was plain as day to her that this coach driver had more than an adequate view of her ankles in much the same way as she had an extreme and hardly erotic view of his, and for the same reason.

“Why haven’t you turned into a raging beast when you cast your eyes on me tootsies?” she demanded. “That’s what menfolk do, it’s written in pamphlets for them as can read to take note of. Is there summat wrong with me as menfolk don’t find likeable?”

“You’re good company on a coach ride because you keep your trap shut, and good company on the beach because there’s no harm in you,” he said, thoughtfully, “and you ladies never get, how shall I put it, turned on by a gentleman’s feet?” he asked, smiling because he was amused at the very idea.

“What? Them plates of meat? Never!” she said, and laughed, “whoever heard of anything as daft as that! A lass getting all excited and demented over a man’s feet!”

“It does sound daft,” he agreed, “almost as daft as us men becoming savage beasts at a glimpse of a nicely turned ankle.”

“Oh, you are a tease,” she laughed, then, “but what you say makes sense. I’ve never been ravaged by a gennelman inadvertently catching sight of my feet, and I’ve lived well night sixty-five years!”

“Watch out!” he laughed as a wave bigger than the baby waves that had been tickling their toes rolled up to them, and over their feet, even rising half way up their shins before it receded.

“That were cheeky,” she muttered, “now look at me best frock and how wet it is! I’ll catch my death, I will, letting it drag across my poor feeble legs whilst it’s dripping!”

“I would suggest … but no, it’s not proper and there are people around, building castles of sand and chasing balls across the sand… you can’t do that.”

“Do what?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Take it off?” suggested Dave. “I told you it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had,” he added lamely.

“Here! Look at what’s happening… the water’s gone and got into the cloth, and it’s splitting! My best frock is splitting wide open, so help me!”

“I’ll not look then,” groaned Dave, quite convinced that the last thing he wanted to see, the one thing that would spoil this welcome break in Skegness, was a fragmenting frock on an ancient crone.

“There’s stuff in it...” she wailed, “look, my poor old frock, look, there’s stuff trickling out!”

And it was true. The material of the dress was old and frayed and the water had caused part of the bottom hem to finally give way and split open, and a few shiny objects, things that looked very much like coins, were trickling out onto the wet sand and lying there like so many tiny shiny moons with faces on them.

“Sovereigns...” breathed Dave, “you’ve got sovereigns in your frock! Loads of them!”

“They was sowed in to weight it down and stop the wind lifting the skirt and showing to one and all that they ain’t invented knickers yet,” sniffed Annie.

“By golly, that would fascinate more lads than a pair of ankles might, however beautifully turned they are...” whispered Dave, “but have you any idea how much your coins are worth?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not much, I should think,” she murmured, “this frock weren’t new when I was given it by a gypsy woman who told me my fortune and talked me into buying a sprig of heather from her when she was on ‘er death bed. She said as it would bring me luck, but that was more years ago than I care to remember, and it ain’t brought me much luck yet!”

“But those coins...” breathed Dave, and then he proved what a noble and wonderful man he was when he refrained from slipping some in his pocket and said instead, “don’t you go around telling people about it. Those coins are worth more cash than you’ve ever owned, if I’m right and they’re real gold sovereigns. You’ll be able to buy loads of things with them! You’ll be the richest woman in the whole of our little town back home! And you’ll be able to teach those lads of yours a bit of respect!”

“You reckon?” she gasped.

He nodded. “I reckon,” he said, “now let’s pick them up and put them somewhere safe. After all, we can’t go and leave sovereigns lying around on the beach! People might get greedy and come searching for more, and before you know what’s happening there’ll be a gold rush down here and future history books will recount the sordid adventures of the great Skegness gold rush...”

“We can’t let that happen,” she agreed. “But I’ve got one great big horrible worry...”

“What? With all that money? What could possibly be troubling you now?”

“There might be a gust of sea breeze from over yon ocean, and it might blow my unweighted skirt over my head, and any old folk will be able to see more than my ankles! Don’t you see, they ain’t invented knickers yet!”

TO BE CONTINUED...

© Peter Rogerson 28.05.18