Fourpenny Flyer (5 page)

‘We've a picnic planned for this afternoon,' Billy was saying. ‘Will the weather hold, think 'ee?'

‘With your luck,' John said, ‘it's bound to.'

The stagecoach to Scole and Norwich was late arriving in Bury St Edmunds that morning, and as a consequence the coachman was ill-tempered and inapproachable, which was a considerable disappointment to John Easter. It was a bad start, both to the day and to his new position as manager of the firm. And it was made worse by the memory of the words his mother had spoken as she left for London.

‘I shall watch to see how you get along, Johnnie,' she'd promised briskly. ‘Plans on paper are all very well, my dear, howsomever 'tis how you put 'em into practice that counts.'

‘I will do my utmost,' he'd promised, bowing to her formally and keeping his feelings completely hidden.

But now, as he scrambled aboard the dusty vehicle and took his seat outside, he was inwardly wincing at the enormity of the task he'd set himself. The organization of rapid and competent newspaper deliveries throughout the country depended almost entirely on the cooperation of the coachmen, and he wasn't at all sure how any of them would react to his proposals. He
had
to be able to talk to this one on the road, but such an attempt would be most unwise now they were late.

He wrapped his travelling cloak neatly about his legs, comforting himself with the thought that there were several miles to travel yet, and that the coach was scheduled to stop for breakfast at the White Hart Inn in Scole where such talk might actually be more opportune. Meantime he would sit tight and say nothing and enjoy the journey; which was easy enough because sitting tight and
saying nothing was almost second nature to him.

If he could have chosen his own appearance and position in life, John Easter would have been a coachman. They had such style, these young, strong, ruddy-faced men, so marvellously broad of shoulder in their huge greatcoats with triple capes swathing them to the waist, wearing their flat beaver hats so rakishly, brims curled, and with such fine leather boots on their determined feet. Once he had contrived to borrow a greatcoat from a coachman affably in his cups and had tried it on before a pierglass, tremulously hoping that it would give him some of its owner's style. But it was a miserable disappointment. It made him look more feeble than ever, and a great deal younger, accentuating his narrow shoulders and his skinny frame and his pale, withdrawn features. He knew that he looked like a child in adult's clothing and he never repeated the experiment.

Now, sitting beside this particular coachman as their vehicle, the ‘Phenomena', clattered across the cobbles of Angel Hill, he was quietly enjoying himself. There was something peculiarly rewarding about a coach journey, something contained and safe. And besides, it was such a marvellous combination of sights and smells and sounds, people far below them waving goodbye or watching with admiration, the green hillside rising so peacefully before them as they turned out of the square towards Eastgate Street, the pungent scent that rose from the horses as their flanks began to steam, the clock, clock, clip of all those iron-shod hooves on the cobbles, the pole chains clinking between the wheelers, the bars of the two leaders clattering, and the great wheels grinding, and then whirring and then, when they'd finally picked up speed, humming and purring like some great satisfied cat. And all without the need to say a word.

There was plenty of cheerful conversation among the other passengers on the coach that morning. Two young gentlemen who had travelled from Norwich to join their cousins at the Victory Ball were happily reliving every dance, their feet swinging in the air in time to the remembered rhythms and their flushed faces nodding,
and a gentleman in a stovepipe hat was equally happy in his opinion that ‘the war being over, we shall see some wonders now, you mark my words!' And none of them was in the least discommoded by John Easter's shyness, providing he smiled and nodded at them from time to time.

But at the first turnpike a farmer and his wife climbed heavily aboard with four creaking hampers and such an assortment of boxes and bundles there was barely room for them all in the boot. And they brought quite another flavour to the journey, because the farmer was the proud possessor of a jew's harp which he thrust into his jaw as soon as the coach began to move.

‘He onny know the two tunes, don't 'ee, my love?' the farmer's wife explained, wafting a strong smell of farmyard muck upon her fellow passengers. ‘But you harken you shall see, I promise 'ee gent'men, he play 'em so moosical'twould charm the birds from the trees.'

‘Bravo!' Stovepipe Hat encouraged. ‘Just the style for a fine spring morning.'

‘It might discommode the horses,' John pointed out, but speaking softly because he didn't want to appear critical.

‘Lord love yer!' the farmer's wife beamed. ‘No chance a' that, sir, when he plays so moosical. What's your opinion, Mr Coachman?'

‘Don't make no odds to me,' the coachman said, watching the lead horses carefully as they negotiated a bend in the road. ‘Play all you like an' welcome. 'Tis a good team, well used to music. Ho! Not
that
way, my beauty' – flicking the horse's flank with his long whip. ‘We ain't a-dancin' in no ditches this morning,
if
you please.'

So the farmer's wife assumed a rapturous expression and the farmer began to twang his little harp, most unmelodiously, just as John had feared. From then on he played to his travelling companions affably and tunelessly all the way to Scole and breakfast. And although the horses pricked up their ears and twitched their flanks, the birds stayed where they were and paid no attention to him at all.

The White Hart Inn at Scole stood at a place where five
roads met, and as all five were coaching roads, and from such busy places as Bury, Thetford, Norwich, Yarmouth and Ipswich, there was barely an hour in the day when it wasn't busy feeding travellers or changing teams of horses. The landlord kept a good table and employed more cooks and chambermaids, waiters and potboys, grooms and ostlers than he ever bothered to count. It was the sort of place where a hero could claim an instant audience and a recluse dine unnoticed, and even the most determined musician could be persuaded to put something more palatable between his jaws than a twanging jew's harp.

It was an imposing building, John thought, even though it was extremely old-fashioned, having been built in the days of the old Queen Elizabeth, with serpentine gables and old leaded windows set in the narrow red bricks of the time. All three wings gave out to the cobbled coachyard and the stables and pastures where more than twenty teams of coach horses could be housed and fed at any one time. It was a wide space but it looked smaller than it was because it was always so crowded: with travellers creaking in and out of the coaches and ostlers manoeuvring the new teams into position, an assortment of dogs barking in every arrival and scores of brown fowls picking among the fallen straw, flurrying away from the great wheels just in time and with considerable loss of feather and returning to peck again as soon as the teams had been led away. And above it all, the painted sign of the white hart itself hung suspended above the central archway, an extremely placid, domesticated creature, lying nonchalantly within its oval frame like a lightly cooked rabbit on a plate.

Now, John told himself, you must talk to the coachman. He had been appointed manager and he had given his word. Worse than that, he had even had the gall to boast that he would double the firm's profits in two years. He took a deep breath to steady himself and walked across to the entrance to the coffee room where the coachmen had gathered.

They looked at him idly as he approached, estimating whether or not they should stand aside to make way for him.

‘God give 'ee good day, gentlemen,' he said, using the old-fashioned greeting in an excess of politeness. ‘Would you do me the honour of taking breakfast with me?'

Mr Wiggins, the driver of the ‘Phenomena', answered for them all, ‘Werry obliging of 'ee, sir,' he said. ‘Thank 'ee kindly. We could use a little sustenance, couldn't we, boys?'

And they followed their host into the coffee room.

Breakfast was being served, and the long room was a bustle of movement and munching. Waiters skidded from table to table like skaters, with heaped plates held precariously above their heads and trailing steam; tankards were clinked for replenishment; knives and forks flashed and clattered.

But the arrival of seven coachmen in a massive and talkative phalanx was enough to stop even the heartiest eater, especially as the landlord himself came out to supervise the setting of a table large enough to accommodate them all. Soon necks were being craned to discover who the heroes were honouring with their company.

‘Pray order whatever you require,' John said, when they'd taken their places about the table.

‘Steaks and ale, sir,' Mr Wiggins said with happy authority.

So steaks and ale it duly was, and because it would never have done to sit apart while his guests were eating, John ate his portion too, despite the fact that, after an early breakfast at Bury, he had little appetite.

They talked of travel, of course, of temperamental horses and peculiar passengers and the deplorable state of the roads. And they greeted everything that John managed to say with a mocking good humour and the steaks were nearly devoured before he could manoeuvre the conversation to the matter of timekeeping.

‘Powerful good timekeepers, us gentlemen of the road,' the oldest coachman said, wiping his mouth after a deep draught of ale.

‘With so many hazards,' John said, nodding his head to signify admiration. ‘It amazes me that you always manage to keep such good time.'

‘Matter of honour, sir,' Mr Wiggins said, ‘bein' as our watchword is dependability. Dependability, sir. You may depend upon it.' And was cheered for his wit.

‘I can believe it, sir,' John said. ‘For 'tis my estimation that most journeys are completed within five minutes of the appointed time.'

It was generally and happily agreed that they were. ‘Dependability sir. That's the ticket!'

Now was the time to dare, surely.

‘That being so, gentlemen,' he said, staying calm with a considerable effort, ‘there is a little matter of business I should like to discuss with you, if you would be so kind.'

Instant caution, a withdrawing of bodies, guarded expressions. Had he spoken too soon, or with too much eagerness?

‘What manner of business did 'ee have in mind, sir?' Mr Wiggins asked carefully.

‘I will be plain with you,' John said. ‘It is my intention to dispatch newspapers daily from the printers in London to newsagent shops in all the towns in this region. I am here to buy shops for that purpose. Howsomever, for those papers to arrive in my shops in the shortest possible time, I must ask for your cooperation. Your
paid
cooperation, of course, since this is a matter of business.'

The seven men looked at one another quickly, assessing the offer and their reactions to it.

‘The usual fare in these parts is fourpence or fivepence a mile,' John said, ‘with a shilling remuneration for the coachman, of course. So what I propose to you, gentlemen, is half fare for the goods at tuppence ha'penny paid to the company plus the usual remuneration for your labours, since I would require the papers to be transferred from coach to coach according to my instructions in order to facilitate the swiftest possible journey.'

‘And each of us to be paid according?' Mr Wiggins asked.

‘Of course.'

‘What sort a' quantities was we talkin' about?'

‘Two reams per journey, possibly more.'

The matter was considered in half sentences tossed
from one to the other between mouthfuls of steak and meaning looks gleamed from eye to eye across the tops of tilted tankards, and slow pondering nods while food and information were digested. Finally Mr Wiggins said that as far as he could see a shilling fee might be reasonable, ‘bein' your papers got to be transported same as any other traveller. Howsomever, more than two reams and 'twould have to be negotiated again, if you takes my meaning, sir'.

John agreed with him, adding that the fee would of course depend upon the papers arriving in time to be put straight aboard the very next coach for the next stage of their journey.

‘A' course!' the coachman said sagely, ‘that stands ter reason, don't it? I tell you what though, sir, if you means ter make a business of it, if you takes my meanin', the man you oughter see is Mr Chaplin, him what owns jest about every blessed coach on these 'ere roads nowadays. A good bloke, Mr Chaplin.'

‘I'm sure of it,' John said.

‘So what you ought ter do, young man, is ter get your boss to go down to the Cross Keys in Wood Street and do business with Mr Chaplin direct.'

It was an excellent suggestion, which he would certainly act upon. ‘Actually,' he said, with modest pride, ‘
I
am the boss of the firm.'

‘Should a' know'd, Mr Easter sir,' the coachman said, adjusting his tone immediately and touching the curled brim of his beaver hat with instant respect, just to make doubly sure. ‘Well, there you are then.'

And there, apparently, he was. For once they'd realized that they were talking to the boss, the rest of the coachmen were quick to agree that his plan was not only interesting but workable and acceptable. And John had assured them all that he would see Mr Chaplin at the very first opportunity.

‘Tell him Joseph Wiggins is agreeable,' Mr Wiggins said, as he put down his empty tankard. ‘Joseph Wiggins is agreeable. That should swing it.'

But then the Ipswich coach drove through the great archway into the courtyard, coach horn blaring, and that
was the signal for the meal to end and the coffee room to empty. By the time John and his guests had strolled out into the courtyard, the post-boys were running from the inn like a tumble of autumn leaves in their long yellow coats with their brown leg pads, and there was a commotion of boarding and departing.