Down an English Lane

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘Believe me, you are the best person for the job,’ said Henry. ‘We don’t employ many couriers, just Thelma and Sheila; she only started this year and is still learning the job. We know we will have to advertise Thelma’s post, and maybe we will be able to replace her quite soon…but in the meantime, if you could see your way to helping us out, Maisie?’

  She smiled. ‘You have twisted my arm…’ Although she had not needed much persuasion. ‘When do you want me to start?’

  ‘The next tour – it’s the Scottish one – goes on Sunday, the fourth of June. Is that OK?’

  ‘And now it’s… May the thirtieth. Less than a week! Not much time… I’ll have to swot up on my history of Edinburgh; and Stirling Castle as well now, and Callander…’ The last time she had done the Scottish tour it had been only five days to Edinburgh, but now it included the resort of Callander, near to Loch Katrine, the setting for The Lady of the Lake. ‘And I’d better take a look at Sir Walter Scott again…’ Already she could feel the excitement starting to bubble up inside her.

  ‘You’ll be fine, I know you will.’ Henry smiled confidently at her. ‘You’ll be back from Scotland on the Saturday, so you will be able to have the weekend at home before the next five-day tour starts; that’s on Monday, June the twelfth. That’s the one to Stratford-upon-Avon, so you had better start brushing up on your Shakespeare as well!’

  ‘What! I thought it was just Edinburgh you wanted me to do…’

  ‘No… I did say for the next few weeks; Edinburgh, Stratford, and then – possibly – the five days to London. By that time we might have found a full-time replacement for Thelma. And in the meantime Colin will be coming to take over here in your absence. You worked with Colin in the York office, didn’t you, Maisie?’

  ‘Yes…so I did.’

  ‘He’s a good bloke, is Colin. He’s working as a relief manager at the moment, but I hope to be able to fix him up with a permanent position before long. Now, Maisie, when you’ve locked up we’ll go and have a bite to eat, you and I, before I head off back to York. There’s a Hagenbach’s café not far from here, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, that will be lovely, thank you…’

  ‘And I can give you all the gen about the tours. You will have stayed at the Edinburgh hotel before, and the London one, but the hotel in Callander will be new to you – a very comfortable hospitable place from all the reports we’ve had – and the one in Stratford is new as well. But you don’t find it difficult to fit in anywhere, do you, Maisie…?’

  The central starting-off point for the tours was in Leeds, at the bus station on Wellington Street, so Maisie did not have far to travel on the following Sunday morning. She took a taxi in order to arrive there well before the appointed tour departure time of ten forty-five. This was to allow time for passengers from York, Manchester, Liverpool and the other northern towns and cities to arrive, brought there by a team of part-time relief drivers. The coach drivers who were taking out tours that morning – to Torquay, Bournemouth, Weymouth and the Scottish tour – were already congregated in the snack bar enjoying mugs of strong tea and toast, and in one case, bacon and egg. His breakfast? wondered Maisie, or maybe it was his second one of the morning.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said, joining them after collecting a mug of coffee from the counter. She had met them all before, some only briefly, but they greeted her warmly.

  ‘You’re with me, I believe,’ said Bob, a cheerful round-faced man – the one who was tucking into the bacon and egg. It was well known that Bob enjoyed his food, as his ample waistline proved. ‘Well, I know you’re with me, ’cause I’m the only one with a courier, aren’t I?’ The other three tours, to the south of England, were simply holidays with excursions that did not require a courier’s special knowledge, although the drivers were expected to find out a few facts and interesting points about the places they were visiting.

  ‘Good tour this one, Maisie,’ he went on. ‘You’ll enjoy it. And the food! By the heck, I’ll bet you’ve never tasted such roast beef as they serve up there in Callander. It’s making me mouth water just thinking about it!’

  ‘D’you ever think of ’owt else but yer belly?’ quipped one of his mates. ‘Trust you to land the Scottish tour again!’

  ‘Aye, an’ I’m not likely to let go of it neither,’ laughed Bob. ‘It’s a pity it’s only once every three weeks.’

  By and large, the coach drivers kept to their own tours, possibly alternating between two or three, as none of the tours left every single week. But as Galaxy had a reputation for comfortable hotels and good food none of them ever complained about their diet whilst they were away from home. Indeed, Bob was not the only one who was more than a little corpulent. Long hours behind the wheel, which resulted in a sedentary lifestyle, plus a three-course cooked meal every evening was an occupational hazard!

  The drivers were all smartly attired in their regulation dark green blazers with a green and white striped tie. Maisie’s blazer was bright red, so that she could be spotted easily in a crowd, and she wore a red and white candy-striped blouse and a badge which stated, MAISIE, GALAXY COURIER. They did not bother overmuch with surnames, but the Christian names of both the courier and the driver would be one of the first things the customers would learn, and would then use endlessly for the rest of the week!

  The coaches were painted in dark green with GALAXY TOURS written boldly in white. At first their insignia had sported only the white rose of Yorkshire, but it had recently been altered to include the red rose of Lancashire, as many of their clients were from across the Pennine border. This symbol was on the pockets of the drivers’ blazers, and on Maisie’s as well.

  By ten-thirty all the travellers had assembled and Maisie helped many of them, not just her own passengers, to locate the right coach. She felt excited; it was always so at the beginning of a tour; the anticipation of the pleasures – and sometimes the worries, too – of the week that lay ahead. Thirty-six new people to get to know; that was always the hardest job. You had to get a mental picture of each one firmly fixed in your mind as soon as possible just in case – God forbid! – one of them should stray away and get lost.

  As soon as they had left the city of Leeds behind and were heading through the open countryside she stood at the front of the coach, her microphone in her hand.

  ‘Good morning, everyone…’ she said brightly and, she hoped, confidently.

  There was a murmured response of ‘Good morning…’ from some of the seats, but Maisie did not exhort them to ‘Speak up; I can’t hear you!’, as some jolly couriers were wont to do. She knew they would lose their inhibitions before they had been very long on the road. ‘My name is Maisie and I am your courier, and this is Bob, our very competent and experienced driver. It is our job to look after you all this week, and I can assure you we are going to have a most enjoyable time together. Anything at all you want to know, any problems, be sure to come and ask me. I will tell you more as the day goes on, but for now…just enjoy the scenery, or catch up with your beauty sleep if you wish!’

  There was polite laughter, and she was gratified to see nearly all smiling faces looking back at her. They were mostly middle-aged couples, husbands and wives or, in some cases, two ladies sitting together. They appeared quite elderly, very few under forty…or so it seemed at a first glance. But that was usually the case. They were quite subdued now, but after a day or two in one another’s company they would be talking and laughing together as though they had known one another for ages.

  They stopped soon after midday at the little town of Moffat in the centre of the Lowland sheep-farming area. Lunch had been pre-booked at an hotel on the main street as it was difficult to find places open on a Sunday. It was when they left the town behind and were heading northwards through the lovely scenery of Annandale that Maisie was able to impart to her captive audience her first gem of information.

  ‘The hollow in the hills we will shortly be coming to, ladies and gentlemen, is known as the Devil’s
Beef Tub. It is said to have been a hiding place for stolen cattle…’

  But the fish and chip lunch was lying heavily on several stomachs, and Maisie’s words, in some cases, fell on deaf ears, or were even answered by snores. She decided to leave them in peace for a while.

  The Edinburgh hotel was situated on Princes Street, almost opposite the memorial to Sir Walter Scott, a soot-blackened edifice with a Gothic spire reaching up two hundred feet. It had been erected in 1844 as what was considered to be a fitting tribute to the famous son of the city, but its architectural merit had been argued about ever since.

  Maisie had stayed at the hotel before and knew that she and the passengers would enjoy the comfortable rooms and the appetising food during their three-night stay. The two days, Monday and Tuesday, would be fully occupied with sightseeing; and she had been burning the midnight oil for the past few nights, genning up on all the facts and anecdotes, so that she could relate many of them without continual reference to a guide book.

  The castle, parts of it dating back to 1100, dominated the Edinburgh skyline, perched high on Castle Rock. Monday morning found them there, bright and early, exploring the apartments of Mary, Queen of Scots (including the chamber where James VI, later James I of England, was born); the Scottish Crown Jewels; the tiny chapel of St Margaret; and the Castle Esplanade, before breaking for lunch. They would reassemble, Maisie told her eager followers, at the foot of the castle steps at two o’clock, ready to begin their exploration of the Royal Mile.

  Bob, after driving them to the castle, had spent the time on his own, having no wish to visit the place yet again. He had arranged to meet Maisie, though, for lunch. They found a snack bar that was not too crowded in a little street near to St Giles’ Cathedral.

  She glanced around. ‘Good… None of my folk seem to have found this place. I must admit it’s nice to get away from them for a little while. I’ve had my work cut out this morning, trying to keep up with all their questions. They’re a lively lot, and the thirst for knowledge of some of them – mostly the elderly ones – is quite amazing.’

  Bob grinned. ‘Isn’t it always the same on these – what d’you call ’em? – cultural tours. Me, I just drive ’em here. If you’ve seen one castle you’ve seen ’em all in my book. Edinburgh’s a bonny city though, I must admit. Are you going to be doing this tour regular, like, Maisie?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘It’s supposed to be just for the next few weeks – alternating with London and Stratford – until they get a replacement for Thelma.’

  ‘Oh aye; she’s expecting, isn’t she? Nice lass, Thelma. But I reckon she’ll have her hands full before long, once the bairn arrives.’

  ‘It’s not due just yet, Bob. She’s had to give up because of high blood pressure.’

  ‘Oh, I see; poor lass… She’ll be OK though, if she takes it easy. The same thing happened to my wife when she was carrying our second one, our Eddie, but she was as right as rain once she stopped dashing around. Your family has to come first, that’s what me and Mavis have always said…’

  They broke off to place their order with the waitress: cheese omelettes and a pot of tea for two. ‘We shan’t need much,’ said Bob. ‘There’ll be the usual hearty meal tonight… But it’s Callander that’s the one for food, Maisie. By Jove, you’re in for a treat there all right…’

  Maisie liked Bob. She had worked with him before on a couple of occasions and had felt very safe in his company. He was a family man through and through and, as he had just said, they came first with him. But it could not always be easy, she was sure, being away from home for several days at a time.

  ‘How do you manage to cope with your home and family commitments?’ she asked him. ‘I’m sure you must miss your wife and children, and they will miss you.’

  ‘So they do,’ he nodded. ‘But look at it this way; it’s like another honeymoon for me and Mavis every time I go home.’ He winked at her. ‘Well, sort of, you know what I mean,’ he added quickly, as though he might have shocked her. ‘We’ve adjusted to being apart because the pay’s quite good; Henry Galloway’s one of the best when it comes to bosses, and then there’s the tips. My Mavis is a very competent woman and the kids are well-behaved, though I say it meself. But if ever she said she couldn’t manage on her own any more, I’d give it up. I’m home most weekends of course, and we have a few days off every three months or so. And I can take the wife along an’ all for a free holiday at the end of the season. There’s a few perks, y’see.’

  ‘It’s seasonal work though, isn’t it? What do you do in the winter months?’

  ‘Taxiing mostly. We get by, and I catch up with all the odd jobs at home. I do all my own painting and decorating…’

  The meal arrived and they ate for a while without talking. Yes, Bob was a real family man, thought Maisie. She could not see him playing away from home as some of the other drivers did, flirting with the young unmarried women on the coach, sometimes doing more than just flirt, from what she had heard. There were certain drivers who would consider that to be one of the perks of the job.

  ‘You’ll not catch me larking around,’ said Bob suddenly, as though he had read her thoughts. ‘Not with the grand little wife I’ve got at home. It’s disgraceful the way some of my mates carry on while they’re away. But I don’t say ’owt; I mind me own business. If they want to risk their marriage it’s up to them… Not that there’s much chance of any crumpet anyway on this tour, eh Maisie?’ His eyes twinkled with merriment and she laughed out loud.

  ‘Apart from your good self, of course,’ he added, grinning at her. ‘No offence intended…’

  ‘And none taken,’ she said smiling. ‘To be honest, I went out with Eric once or twice – quite a while ago – until I found out he was married. He hadn’t said…’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’s a wily devil is Eric; you want to steer well clear of him. Er…you won’t think I’m propositioning you, will you, Maisie, if I invite you to go for a drink with me this evening?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t; I’d love to,’ she replied. ‘Come on, Bob; let’s get this bill paid. My eager beavers will be waiting for me in fifteen minutes’ time. Do you want to come with us this afternoon? The Royal Mile and Holyrood? You’re very welcome…’

  ‘Nah…thanks all the same. I’ll have a mooch around the old alleyways by meself, then I’ll find a quiet spot and read me book till it’s time to pick you lot up again. Four-thirty you said, didn’t you? See you later, Maisie…’

  By the time she had ‘powdered her nose’ and walked back to the steps, most of the company was assembled, and the others arrived on the dot of two o’clock.

  The first stop of the afternoon was at the nearby Greyfriars Church.

  ‘Are we going to see Greyfriars Bobby?’ she had already been asked several times. The group was nothing if not predictable. They stood around, agog with interest – or somewhat blasé if they already knew the story – whilst she recounted the tale of the terrier whose statue crowned the fountain near to the church. Bobby’s owner was Jock Gray, a shepherd who had died in 1858 and been buried in the churchyard. The faithful Bobby had watched over the grave of his master for the remainder of his life, fed by the people of Edinburgh. When he died, in 1872, he was buried at the side of his master.

  There were suitable exclamations of ‘Aah…’ and ‘What a lovely story…’ as they went on to explore the rest of the Royal Mile, the network of ancient streets running from Castle Hill to the gates of Holyrood House. The Lawnmarket; St Giles’ Cathedral, from the pulpit of which John Knox had preached his fiery Calvinism; the house where, it was reputed, he had lived; Canongate…leading eventually to the Palace of Holyrood House, the former home of the kings and queens of Scotland.

  As Maisie had anticipated, the story which fascinated the group the most was the one of the murder of David Rizzio, the favourite of Mary, Queen of Scots. She imbued her voice with as much feeling as she could as she recounted how, on a night in
March, 1566, a gang of nobles, led by the Queen’s husband, Lord Darnley, entered the Queen’s room by a private staircase and stabbed to death, in her presence, her friend and secretary, David Rizzio. There was even the bloodstain remaining on the carpet. Maisie pointed it out, although adding to herself, If you believe that you will believe anything… The murder of Rizzio, though, was one of the best-documented murders in history.

  The evening meal was hearty, as Bob had predicted, and Maisie was glad of the walk along Princes Street and through the gardens to work off the effects of the mulligatawny soup, steak and kidney pie, and butterscotch tart. The hands of the floral clock, said to be the oldest one in the world, stood at a quarter past nine, and dusk was just beginning to fall as they strolled out of the gardens and across the road to a little pub that Bob had visited before.

  Maisie looked around warily. She was not sure whether or not women in pubs were frowned on, north of the border. She had heard that they were looked on askance in County Durham and Northumberland, but as Edinburgh was a city frequented by tourists they might have become more accustomed to Sassenach ways. A quick glance told her that this was probably so. There were a lot more men than women, but there were several ladies accompanied by men; none, however, who appeared to be without a male escort.

  ‘You won’t report me for having the odd half of bitter, will you?’ laughed Bob.

  ‘No, of course not; why should I? Er…how strict is the rule about the drivers’ drinking?’

  ‘Pretty strict. We’re forbidden to drink at all while we’re on the road, and it’s only an idiot who would disobey. We’ve got everyone else’s lives in our hands as well as our own. You might get the occasional bloody fool – pardon me! – who thinks he can do as he likes, but just one report of ’owt of the sort an’ he’d be out on his ear.’