HOLIDAY'S END.

The historical coach trip, in which on old lady invents underwear and a condemned man is set free, comes to an end...

THE COACHMAN'S HOLIDAY -16

HOLIDAY’S END.

Harry did a good job trussing Mr Smith up as if he was some huge offensive foul about to be shoved into a roasting oven, only he wasn’t quite comatose. Far from it. He was making enough noise to waken the dead of several counties, largely in protest at being manhandled like the thief he was but mostly because Dave Wasp had discharged his musket straight into the fleeing cheeks of his bottom, and felled him before he could get away.

And they were on their way back home, with the new wheel turning smoothly, like new wheels should.

“I’d like to get back in one go, if that’s all right with you,” called Dave to the passengers, and as they’d had virtually no sleep since their last night in Skegness they were all too tired to voice any complaints they might think of. All they wanted was the comfort of their own beds, and a long ride in a rickety coach was something worth putting up with.

Mr Smith was trussed up and pushed into a corner of the back seat next to Pierre and Mr Jones, who was feeling peeved because he realised that his recent nightmare had been contrived by his own wife and her extensive family in order to extricate herself from a marriage that wasn’t exciting enough for her. Mr Jones knew in his heart that he was a quietly timid sort with little in the way of ambition and that he had fooled himself into believing that he loved his wife, but now he could see the lengths she had gone to in order to free herself from the bond of the marriage that she had with him, and in his heart he knew he had converted assumed love into definite hate.

“You’re a fine piece of work, Smith,” he almost spat at the injured man, “I wish you and my wife well together, if you manage to escape the noose yourself, of course, which isn’t guaranteed!”

“Oh, I’m safe enough, what with a judge in the palms of my hands,” grated Mr Smith, “it’s you who are to hang, and that’s still going to happen and there’s nothing you can do about it. The verdict was hanging, and that’s what’ll happen, and then that fine woman of yours will be free to wed once again.”

“You think so, mon ami?” asked Pierre, “I have a Belgian friend, expert in all law, and his name is Hercule. He will soon reverse the ills that have been done, for he believes, above all things, in honest justice.”

“But we’re not in Belgium,” snarled a belligerent Smith. “This is England, and we do things properly here!”

“That will matter little to Hercule, who has offices in London,” smiled Pierre. “He has the ears of great men, mon ami, and his word is trusted. If you are as innocent as you say, Mr Jones, all will be well with you. I promise, mon ami.”

“If I had my way we’d cast the scum overboard next time we cross a great river, and watch him struggle to live whilst sinking into the murky depths,” growled Harry, “I have fought better men on the battle-field, and killed them without a single thought.”

“Then why aren’t you dangling on a rope?” growled Mr. Smith. “You and your pansy words! If you’re a killer like you say you are then the law should put you behind bars, and then taken from there to the scaffold next dawn!”

“I was acting on the orders of the king when I did my killing,” smiled Harry. “Sometimes a man has to obey orders whether he likes them or not.”

“So if the king says kill then you kill and all is well, and if I say kill then you kill and get hanged for it! That doesn’t sound very fair to me.”

“Maybe not, but it is the way of things,” murmured Harry.

“We live in a terrible world, mon ami,” suggested Pierre. “Here I am, having enjoyed a pleasant holiday with you fine Englishmen, and we are friends, I think, but if we were to meet on the battle-field we would kill each other, and probably all die, and that would be what would be...”

“It’s always been like that,” sighed Mr Jones. “Justice has ever been different for those who make themselves into kings. Mortals like us have never really mattered.”

“And never will be,” added Harry.

The coach rattled on, and one by one its passengers sunk into thoughts of their own which, ultimately, became a rattled kind of sleep.

Up above the Driver stared at the road ahead, working out rough lengths of the unmade road before he got to them in time to avoid them, and generally steering the horses on what his experience told him was the smoothest route. The sun had risen well into the sky by then and, to his surprise, the road was a great deal better than he had expected. They were, in fact, making excellent progress.

“You got your coins back then, Annie,” asked Jane, knowing the older woman had but needing to strike up some sort of conversation.

“That I have,” sniggered Annie Anon, “though not happy about where the rogue had stashed them.”

“Down his codpiece,” chortled Jane.

“That they were, an’ I fetched them out myself while he was screaming on account of the blood pouring from his cheek behind him. But it gave me a thought, it did. If I’m going to go into ladies knickers like what I suggested, then at the same time I might go into decent men’s underthings as well. Nice fabric, cut to suit, with a way out for when they need a wee!”

“That’s a good idea,” murmured Jane, not liking her dad to hear too much of a conversation that bordered on the personal.

“It is too,” put in Dave, who had been attending to every word, “and I’d be all for it if Mistress Anon were to offer you a place in her future empire,” he added.

“I will,” nodded Annie, “for the lass and I get on well. As soon as we get back ‘ome I’ll be looking into it. There are lots of things to consider, like what kind of such wear do ladies want?”

“Nice and frilly,” grinned Dave.

“For the younger set, maybe, but old lumps of meat like me might want summat sturdier and altogether less … becoming,” murmured Annie.

“What’s going to become of the man you shot, dad?” asked Jane, changing the subject deliberately, “and will you be in trouble for it?”

“Never!” replied Dave, shaking his head, “it was an attempt at blatant highway robbery by him because we were on the highway and he was robbing old Annie here. I was quite within my rights to shoot him and I’ve no regrets on that count. In fact, I’d be surprised if he didn’t hang, what with the way he and others treated Mr Jones, even to the point of having a family member who was a judge pass that awful sentence on him, though I doubt he’ll be a judge much longer. We hear of corruption, and that’s the worse sort. There’s a whole lot of them as need sorting out, take my word for it, and we live in England where there’s occasionally a sense of fair play.”

“It’s not so fair when creatures like the Mayhem woman are at large,” sniffed Annie, “the things they do to impoverish an old soul like me, it’s beyond reason.”

“She can’t last for ever,” Dave told her, “her time’s probably nearly up. Nobody lasts for ever, not now and not, I hope, in the future.”

Then, suddenly, almost taking them by surprise, the coach rumbled into the main depot of the coach company, and the holiday was over. The cheery face of Mrs Wasp greeted her husband, and he climbed down and pulled her towards him.

“It’s been quite a few days,” he said to her, rather ruefully, “and boy, aren’t I glad to be back!”

“Me too,” laughed Jane, and she joined in the group family hug as the other passengers, minus an immobile Mr Smith, climbed out, stretched, retrieved their luggage and melted away into the end of the day.

THE END

© Peter Rogerson 07.06.18.