REFUGEES AND LACY KNICKERS

A chance encounter on the coach with a Beligian refugee gives Annie an idea...

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY - 12

REFUGEES AND LACY KNICKERS

After what seemed an eternity of night, the coach slowed and pulled to a gentle standstill, and driver Dave Wasp’s head appeared in the door window, dark grey against the black, his white teeth almost shining.

“We’re at the Gammon Bridge,” he bawled, “and the toll booth is still empty. The guy’s probably still having his beauty sleep, so I’m going to pull in here for a while, and if he comes I’ll pay his toll and if he doesn’t we’ll carry on. So if any of you want to stretch your legs for a few minutes, or take a leak behind the bushes, feel free to do so.”

“I has never known anything like it,” muttered one of the three passengers who had hitherto kept themselves very much to themselves. He spoke with a thick continental accent and was hard to understand, and rather than try to interpret what he said Tom and Dick didn’t bother to even try.

“Where are you from, mate?” asked Harry, frowning.

“I am a refugee,” pronounced the other, quite clearly. “I am from Belgique, or as you may say, Belgium, and I am called Pierre.”

“Ah! You’re one of those, eh?” asked Tom as he hitched his trews up in order to urinate behind a hawthorn.

“Mon ami, one of those? What is one of those, pray? One of those you speak of so, so, so disparagingly?

“One of those who come here and take the jobs from native English folk,” scowled Tom.

“No, no, no, it is not like that! Not at all!” replied the Belgian who had called himself Pierre.

“But it is,” grated Tom, and he turned to his brother who was also emptying his bladder behind the same hawthorn, “is it not?” he asked.

Dick shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s hear his side of the story,” he murmured, “I’ve read all it says about it in the leaflets, especially the one called Diurnal Fail. But what is the other side of the story my friend?”

“We are lace makers,” Pierre told him, “And, mon ami, we make the finest lace! Much better than the crude stuff that was made before we came, if you forgive this ignorant Belgian. And we have taken English girls, pretty girls, mon ami, and we have taught them! Yes, we now have pretty English girls creating beautiful lace, and it is sold everywhere that lace is needed, decorating fine ladies and princesses and queens. Before we came, though, those English girls who create beautiful lace were scrubbers, mon ami, they scrubbed doorsteps for their bread, they toiled in dirt and filth and were unhappy. Now they are happy, mon ami, and no longer eat stale bread but have flavoursome cakes for their supper! So how is it said we have stolen English jobs when we have done no more than create them?”

“I’d not looked at it like that,” murmured Dick, “and I met a gal, and yes, she was a pretty gal with big you-know-whats, and she is as English as me and creates delicious things in lace...”

“That’s not what it says in the Diurnal Fail leaflets. The man who writes them is quite clear: foreigners steal English jobs from English people, and that’s that!”

“Then tell me, mon ami, how it is that lace made by the girls I tutored has made them wealthier than they ever dreamed possible, before I came, possibly even well nigh as wealthy as you fine gentlemen?” asked Pierre quietly.

“Return aboard!” shouted Dave suddenly, “I spy the toll master, and we will pay our way and cross the river to our own side!”

The travellers returned to their seats and with a quiet word to his horses Dave Wasp set the coach rolling again, pausing at the toll booth before he crossed over the fragile wooden bridge.

“Did you hear what that Belgian was saying, Jane?” asked Dave.

“About lace making? Yes, I did. He said that the ladies who learn his trade earn good money,” she replied.

“Oh, they do, dearie, they do,” put in Annie, “I’ve thought about it for meself, but my bones are too gnarled to do the fine work of lace makers. No, I’m going to use my gold...” here she paused.

“Your gold?” asked Dave, “the gold that was used to weigh down the hem of that old frock of yours?”

She nodded. “The very same,” she sighed, “for I have it safe! I am going to use that gold to make more gold! Yes I am, then! For I have a plan...”

“We should all have a plan,” sighed Driver Dave. “Mine is to get this coach back to the depot safe and sound and with all my passengers in one piece!”

“The gold was used to weigh down my frock or the wind might have blown it up over my head, and all the folk around would see that I was naked underneath it, naked as the day I was born and with my private bits and pieces open to inspection by any dirty old man who chanced to be near.”

“That I know,” nodded Dave.

“It is unpleasant,” agreed Jane, “even I, when I am carrying things that might break and cost me weeks and weeks of wages if I drop them, hate the wind just in case it blows my frock skirt above my waist and shows my all to anyone who cares to look.”

“Well, dearie, I’ve got in my mind to create a flimsy garment that will cover the female parts, a delicate piece of fabric, maybe with touches of lace to it, and have a group of ladies making them by the score! Knickers, that’s what I’ll call them, and they will remove any chance of dirty old men gazing upon a lady’s bottom when the wind blows strong!”

“What a good idea!” exclaimed Jane, “and you have the ideal travelling companion with the Belgian man who knows all about lace and stuff like that!”

“But first I must look into it,” decided Annie, “for there are many chances for a task to fail between the dream of it and its completion. I’ve lived long enough to know that! But Jane, dearest, do you plan to be a co-pilot on coaches all your days, or have you other schemes in your head?”

“I like helping my dad,” began Jane slowly, “but...”

“But you want more feminine work?” suggested her father. “I know that, child! And the service you did at that big house, that was women’s work was it not?”

“Dad! It was slavery by any other name!” exclaimed the girl. “They had me up before dawn and working until nightfall! And even when I was in my bed I was on call for any service they might want of me, especially young Rowster, the son of the house, he wanted service all right, and as often as maybe...”

“The dirty pig!” almost exploded the Driver.

“Say no more, child,” grinned Annie, “and do me a favour. Before you put your head down tonight, think of joining me in the ownership of the very first knickers manufacturey in the land! I’ve got the gold to set it up and you’ve got the youthful nous to make it work!”

“Yes I will. I’ll think of it!” nodded Jane, her eyes shining as the first rays of a new day rose over the Eastern horizon.

“Good girl,” said Dave quietly, “I’m proud of you now and I’ve a feeling I’ll get prouder in the weeks and months to come!”

TO BE CONTINUED...

© Peter Rogerson 03.06.18