More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  I was surprised when Mary chaffed me on my grumpiness as I watched all the delights and resources of home passing out of sight for who knows how long.

  “Cheer up, papa, we are off on an adventure. Is it not exciting?”

  “An adventure, is it? I am surprised to hear such words from you, my dear, of all people. I am used to looking upon you as a rock in this family, the source of all remaining sobriety, if not always of sense. Was it Doctor Johnson who defined ‘Adventure” as ‘a nasty, uncomfortable experience, that invariably makes you late for dinner?’ If not, it was someone every whit as wise.”

  “Oh, papa, you are always so droll! But consider, you have seen the world, which all my reading leads me to consider to be a great advantage. You have been to London, and to Cambridge, whilst Kitty and I have never been further from our own doors than St Albans.”

  “If I have seen the world then I have formed no great opinion of it. And I would thank you not to remind me of the last time I went to London, which can scarcely be called a success. Were it not for your Uncle Gardner and Mr. Darcy….”

  At this point, however, Mrs. Bennet awoke from her doze, and all further conversation of a remotely sensible nature became impossible. While the ladies happily discussed mysteriously absent bonnet pins and other essential items of their luggage, however, it occurred to me that this journey already seemed to have made a change in Mary’s habits. I should have expected her to have her nose in a book by now, but there was not even one in sight, although, to be sure, there was ample room for half a library in her capacious reticule alone. Perhaps there was something in what she had said about ‘seeing the world’? Perhaps we should all of us return changed from this ‘adventure’?

  St Alban’s is on the Great North Road, and the coaches which serve it are among the finest in the kingdom. This applies not only to those which never leave that great thoroughfare, and go straight on and on to the Northern Capital itself, but also those serving subsidiary routes, such as the road to Derby. It was a comparatively comfortable vehicle which carried us along well-metalled roads, built on Mr. Telford’s principles, with well-drilled halts at the various turnpike gates, and we arrived at our day’s destination just as sun was setting.

  There we heard that the coach from Manchester, which was to return the following day via Bakewell and Buxton, among other stops, was not yet come in.

  “But was it not expected several hours ago?” I enquired.

  “Oh,” replied the landlord of the George, where we should be passing the night, “you can’t set your watch by the old Dilly. She ain’t exactly a mail coach, you know. But she always turns up, in the end. Where’re you going, Buxton is it? Oh, she’ll get you there tomorrow, for sure, or maybe the next day. She always gets through, no matter what those dreadful mountains and vicious, flooding streams throw at her. Now in the winter, it might be different. But never you worry sir, she’ll turn up, and you’ll be off tomorrow. I expect.”

  I confess I was unable to share mine host’s equanimity at the prospect of an indefinite stay in his hostelry, waiting for the phantom coachman to arrive. My unease at the prospect was not diminished by the appearance of the suite of rooms to which we were shown. They were, in fact, no worse than I had expected, but the air resounded for the next hour with female complaints of drafty windows, lumpy mattresses, smelly sheets and worse things.

  “Well, my dear,” I asked Mary during a short lull in the threshing about, “what do you think now of seeing the world?”

  “I see the justice of your earlier comments, papa,” she replied. “You have my leave to grump as much as you wish henceforth.”

  “You must remember, my pet, that there were two parts of that definition I quoted, and I must remind you that unless you and your mother and sister shortly abandon their effusions of disgust and horror, however delightful they may be, we are in danger of falling foul of the second part, for the ordinary is already upon the table.”

  Chapter Seven : The High Peak

  We were up betimes the following morning, for the coach to Derby was due to leave at six o’clock, and it took me no little effort to get my flock ready and out into the inn yard in time. How we should have managed without the inn servants to carry everything I do not know. At half past six, we were still standing in the yard, with no sign of the coach, or, indeed, any other passengers.

  “We have missed the coach, Mr. Bennet,” wailed my wife. “You have got us up too late. I knew that new French repeater you spent so much money on last year could never be as reliable as an honest, English watch. Now what are we to do?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, sir,” put in the chambermaid, “Would that be the Derby coach you’re waiting for?”

  “It would.” I replied.

  “Why, sir, you don’t want to believe them printed timetables they give out. Nobody takes any notice o’them. Old Joe, he didn’t get in till gone midnight last night, and he won’t be up for an hour or two yet. Then he’ll want his breakfast. I doubt you’ll get off before ten. Nobody ever turns up till then.”

  “But we are being met at Buxton!” wailed Kitty. “At four in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, miss. The old Dilly can rattle along when she wants to. And there’s a reason Joe was so late yesterday. “Twas his birthday, you see, and he had to drink his health with every innkeeper along the way, which took up a bit of his time, so to speak, and perhaps made him over-careful with his driving. Get your father to have a word with him before he starts off. He’s always ready to do a favour for a gentleman as treats him right, if you see what I mean.”

  I feared I did, and there seemed to be no help for it, although how such a thing could be done I could not think. Near forty miles in four hours – for ten o’clock would inevitably turn into eleven, and the driver would insist on an hour for his lunch, no doubt – would be good-going for a mail coach on the flat. For a private stagecoach over the mountains, on back roads it would be phenomenal. I had allowed twice as long in my arrangements, but had counted upon a reasonably punctual start since the coachman would have spent the previous night at the same inn.

  There was no help for it, however, and what is the use of money, if we are afraid to spend it when the need arises?

  The ladies adjourned for a proper breakfast, while I took a walk about the city, to stretch my legs before the cramps of the long journey, and to find a bank open at this hour, for gold is always more persuasive than paper.

  For some time now, a rhythmic, thumping noise had been nagging in the background of my hearing, hindering coherent thought, and I asked the first passer-by I met about it, as well as the subject of banking.

  On the bank question he was no more helpful than I had expected. I should have to wait at least another hour before anyone would change one of my drafts. On the other, he was much more informative.

  “Noise?” he asked. “What noise? Oh, you mean that noise. You’ll have come up from London way to be asking about that. We don’t notice it, us as lives around here. That’ll be the Works, sir, the Italian Works, the silk mill. The famed industry of the North, sir, it would seem you have not yet had sight of.”

  And he insisted on personally showing me around this wonder of the world, for it would never do for a visitor from the South not to wonder at Derby’s pride.

  The building is certainly impressive enough, running all along the banks of the river near the church, of five storeys high housing, as my guide insisted on informing me, twenty-six Italian winding engines that spin the raw silk on each of the upper three floors whilst the lower two storeys contain eight spinning mills producing basic thread, and four twist mills. What the function of these latter may be I cannot say, nor can I say that I was impressed by the heat, stinks and noise prevalent when I was led, much against my will, inside, nor by the sickly appearance of the wretched children who appear to make up most of the workers there.

  “Why, sir, all the visitors come here. Tis a sight,” was the reply tha
t I received to my tentative suggestions that we might have seen enough, while my observations upon the harsh conditions in which these poor infants had to labour met with-

  “Why, sir, they are glad of the employment. Without their wages their families would starve. Surely twelve hours of gainful employment are to be preferred to loitering about the streets all day? And just think, sir, there are plans to install one of these new steam engines, so that the mills can keep going even when the water is too low for the wheel. Then we shall see things move, shall we not?”

  I was spared the trouble of answering this question by the serendipitous discovery that by now the banks might be open, which enabled me to escape my captor’s clutches with a semblance of gratitude for his entertainment.”

  My errand done, I hastened back to the inn to be welcomed by the customary cries of “Where have you been all this time, Mr. Bennet?”

  Fortunately, the tapster came up at this juncture, to point out to me the disheveled figure at the table in the darkest corner.

  “That’s Old Joe,” he said, “the driver of the Dilly. I believe you have business with him.”

  “I believe I might,” I replied. “Thank you for pointing him out. But tell me, why is it called the Dilly. Is it the name of the proprietor’s wife?”

  “Short for Diligence, though you’d never guess to look at Old Joe there.”

  I rather suspect the name came from a different sort of diligence, but that in itself was not encouraging. The diligences of the continent of Europe, the nearest thing they have to our stagecoaches, have a reputation for unreliability, discomfort, and the very opposite of speed.

  Old Joe, however, proved perfectly amenable to persuasion, especially when it came with the king’s head upon the back. Indeed, it appeared that I had perhaps been over-persuasive, or over- golden, for he instantly drained off his small beer, wiped his mouth, and said -

  “Right you are, sir, do you settle your bill here while I get your bags stowed, and we are off.”

  “But what of the other passengers?” I objected.

  “What other passengers, sir? I see no other passengers here, just you and your ladies. Was there anybody else here when you were looking for me at six? Well, then, if they can’t stir themselves to be here at the advertised time, they’ve missed us. Five minutes, sir, and we’ll be off.”

  The five minutes barely sufficed, amid the sudden chaos that the announcement of the imminent departure occasioned, with messengers flying off everywhere for customers who had booked seats but absented themselves until the customary time.

  None were successful, however, and we had the coach to ourselves when we rattled out of the inn yard, pursued by furious cries to which the driver appeared deaf.

  And what a coach! It probably had not been travelling this route since King Charles’s day, but it looked much like those one sees on pictures of that era. It certainly felt and sounded at least a century old. I dare say it had once had springs, and perhaps even still possessed them, but if so, they were sadly overdue for replacement. The windows appeared never to have borne the burden of glazing, although there were thick, leather curtains to roll down to attempt to mitigate the effects of wind and rain, and, no doubt, on occasion, snow. The holes in the floorboards gave a fascinating view of the surface of the road over which one travelled, so that one need be in doubt about the nature of the dust which seeped in at every crack.

  In short, I doubt if another such rattling, creaking, jolting, bonebreaking ramshackle conveyance could be found on any other road in the kingdom.

  At least we had it to ourselves, which meant there was plenty of room and no need to engage in unwanted conversation, which was just as well, as the clouds of dust in which we were very soon overwhelmed rendered any rational converse impossible.

  Dr and Mrs. Morland on the night before our departure on our ‘great adventure’ had entertained and encouraged us with an account of their travel up from Devonshire.

  It is not very agreeable to enter one of these coaches when it is nearly full,” Mrs. Morland had remarked, “the first comers take possession of the places nearest the door at one end, or the window at the other, and the middle seats are left for those who come in last, and who for that reason may literally be said to bear the heat of the day. The atmosphere of the apartment, indeed, was neither fresher nor more fragrant than that of a prison. To see any thing was impossible; the little windows behind us were on a level with our heads, the coachman's seat obstructed the one in front, and that in the doorway was of use only to those who sat by it. Heat, noise and motion kept me waking all through the night, for we had avoided a perfectly good, daytime connection to save a few pennies, since James had always insisted on paying for the move out of his own money.”

  Later the Doctor painted a vivid picture of their great journey

  "The coachman seemed to know every body along the road; he dropped a parcel at one door, nodded to a woman at another, delivered a message at a third, and stopped at a fourth to receive a glass of spirits or a cup of ale, which had been filled for him as soon as the sound of his wheels was heard.”

  Fortunately, we did not have to endure this sort of entertainment ourselves. Our coachman’s time was all taken up with urging on his threadbare horses to make their best speed, and in demanding more speed in changing them at the frequent halts. For both these purposes he made quite as liberal use of his whip as of his voice, and even we scarce dared answer a call of nature at the changing points, for fear we should be left behind.

  At one point I was obliged to demand that he moderate his language, having espied Mary making detailed notes of some of his more colourful expressions.

  “Certainly, sir, very sorry, sir, won’t happen again, sir,” was the answer I received, but I cannot say that I noticed much difference at the next halt.

  Just as we were all about to expire from the shaking and tumbling, the road surface changed, betraying the hand of the famous Mr. Macadam. We had, as I ascertained from Old Joe at the next halt, now entered the renowned Peak District, and could expect this relief, for which, indeed, we gave much thanks, until the end of the journey.

  “For ‘is grace the Dook, and all the other nobs, they don’t like to be shook up when they go a-dining out with each other, so they makes sure the roads is kept in good order, not like back there. We ‘as a good, firm road clear to Manchester now.”

  I took the opportunity to enquire how we were getting along, for it was already fast approaching three o’clock.

  “Don’t you worry your ‘ead about that, sir. I’ll get you there on time or my name’s not Joe Magwitch.”

  So saying, he turned back to the coach with a final curse for the ostlers and a cry of “All Aboard,” leaving me to ponder on the memory of the landlord at the George calling him ‘Joe Barker.’

  From what Lizzie had related in her letters, I had expected a rather more domestic country, more like our own Hertfordshire, with fields and woodlands almost equally dispersed among each other, and the grand vistas, seemingly untouched by human hand, through which we now swept struck me as a trifle forbidding. I could well see, however, how they might appeal to lovers of the ‘picturesque’ and suchlike modern fads, and Mary, having made a study of such things in her books, was agog to see her grand, romantic vistas in the flesh, or, rather, grass. I should have been glad to see more evidence of human habitation between the villages – most of them mere hamlets – through which we passed, and on or about the rugged peaks we crested.

  We had not much leisure to contemplate the scenery, however, as Joe, having been reminded of his goal, was now rattling along at such a rate that we could barely hear ourselves speak above the rattling and creaking of the ancient conveyance and the thunder of the horses hooves, and it was all we could do to cling on as we careered round the all too frequent blind corners, shedding odd bits of the ancient coach as we did so, a mysterious piece of wood, a lamp here, a bolt there.

  I should never have thought it devil
ishly possible, let alone within human bounds, to coax such a speed out of the lean and threadbare nags harnessed in front of us.

  “I think that was Bakewell,” said Mary, her eyes upon her map, as we shot through a meandering street of houses, sending loiterers, children and assorted livestock scattering.

  “Bakewell?” I exclaimed, or rather bawled, for conversation at a lower volume was impossible. “Surely we should have stopped to change horses there?”

  “I think Master Joe has his eyes on his bonus,” she replied, “though how he will get us from here to Buxton in but twenty minutes I cannot conceive.”

  I confess myself inadequate to describe those last miles. At every moment I expected one, or perhaps all of the horses to drop dead, or a wheel to come off, or any one of a hundred other imminent disasters.

  In the event, it took us some fifty minutes, for the last fifteen of which I was fully occupied in attempting to hold closed the door on my side. The catch had parted company with the doorframe at the last corner but three, after making too close an acquaintance with the stone wall that hedged the road at that point, and the door had swung wildly back and forth since then, threatening to throw us all out of the coach when it was not attempting to break the bones of any person foolish enough to try to close it again. When a fortuitous turn in the right direction swung it back into its frame again I clamped my arm around it and held on, thinking all the while of the fate of Catherine Douglas in the old tale.

  And in the end, even Old Joe must have despaired, for the clocks of Buxton were striking the half-hour when we screeched to a halt outside the Sun Inn.

  I let him stew while he unloaded our baggage, for there was no sign of the welcoming party we had expected, but when a barouche-landau appeared round the corner, with the unmistakeable head of my darling Lizzie protruding from one window, I felt overcome with a sudden fit of generosity. The stout fellow had got us here in time after all. And all our baggage appeared to have survived too.