Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “Nothing. Just…” Thomas tries to manufacture a grin. He reaches out to tug on Jean-Chrys’s sleeve, “…just waiting for the diligence, that’s all. And I got up up too early, I guess. Worried I’d be late. That’s it. Off to visit … an uncle.”

  “An uncle? You don’t have any uncle. Your mother’s only brother died last year and your father doesn’t have a brother.”

  “There’s one you didn’t know about, all right? He’s on my father’s side. In Vitré. That’s where I’m going, Vitré.”

  Jean-Chrys steps back. The expression on his face says he doesn’t believe a word of it.

  “Oh yeah? Well, the diligence on this day doesn’t go toward Brittany. It goes to Paris.” Jean-Chrys’s face is pained. He shakes his head. “I’ve got to go. When you want to tell me what’s really going on, you come see me. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Thomas issues a slight exhale.

  Jean-Chrys turns and trudges away, looking back twice at Thomas before he turns the corner. With a final shake of the head he disappears from Thomas’s sight.

  Thomas exhales long and deep, ridding himself of all the air that wasn’t any good to him over the past few minutes. That was stupid. Careless. And what are those two doing together anyway? They can’t be friends. Though what if they are? He’s leaving Vire. Jean-Chrys and everybody else in this little town can have any friend they want. He doesn’t care anymore.

  The thrum and clop of horses turns Thomas’s head sharply to the right. Into the open area in front of the clock-tower gate come four chestnut horses kicking up clouds of dust. The diligence on its flexible frame bobs in behind. The coach rolls to a stop. All of a sudden the previously empty square becomes a tiny hub. When Thomas arrived he was by himself, not counting the water carrier who was seated, back against the gate, repairing some part of his equipment. Now, in an instant, there are a half dozen people gathered beside and around the coach. One fellow is bringing the horses their water and oats; the rest look to be either there to meet someone arriving or, like Thomas, about to board the diligence on its way out of town. Thomas scans the baggage pile. No one else is carrying what he is, just a satchel. Everyone else has something more substantial. There are two wooden trunks, a large wicker basket filled with something cloth-wrapped, an empty birdcage, a large canvas- and rope-wrapped shape as big as a giant dog, if dogs were square.

  Thomas looks up to the tower clock. Ten minutes of seven. With any luck at all, he’ll be away in a few minutes. He picks up his satchel and its awkward weight, somehow even heavier than before. His shoulder feels like it’s on fire. He hurries as best he can toward the coach, straightaway to the driver who has just jumped down from his seat. The man is stroking the closest of his four horses. For what seems like forever, Thomas stands behind the man and waits for him to notice him standing there. Unable to wait any longer, Thomas taps the driver on the shoulder.

  “Monsieur.” Thomas lowers the satchel to the ground.

  The driver swings about. “Young pup. What is it?”

  “Oh,” says Thomas, recoiling at the man’s onion breath and the gaps between his teeth, “just thought I’d let you know I’m ready.” Thomas unrolls his fingers to show the man his coins.

  The driver sizes Thomas up, beginning with the well-worn satchel on the ground and the dust-covered shoes. He continues all the way up the tan socks, navy breeches and sand-coloured justaucorps, up to his plain collar and unwigged dark brown hair tied in a loose queue.

  “Ready are you, pup? Well, youse be ready all you like. It’s when I’m ready that counts. Understood?” The driver curls his lips and arches back his head. Thomas can see up his nose. It’s not a pretty sight.

  Thomas acknowledges the driver’s words with a nod. He steps back to wait for an announcement or some other sign that the diligence is boarding. The clock tower says it’s now a minute of seven. All the passengers who were aboard the diligence when it rolled into the square appear to have descended. The coach is still more than half full. Thomas wonders if all the baggage that’s to come down has been removed from up top. His head is on a swivel, eyes left to the diligence, right upon the clock face on the gate and then up the street that leads to where he lives. Used to live. Thomas feels a steady trickle in each armpit.

  “Passengers! All passengers!” shouts the driver. He is standing beside the fold-down step that leads up and into the middle passenger compartment.

  Thomas grabs his satchel and lifts it with scuffling feet over to the driver. He plops the satchel down at the man’s feet.

  “Still ready, are you, pup?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, is it? We likes that.”

  Thomas can think of nothing further to say so he blinks his eyes at the man. The driver allows a hint of a smile.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “To Saint-Malo it is then?”

  “Saint-Malo? No. But, but,” stutters Thomas. His face is that of someone being punched. “Isn’t this coach for Paris?”

  “Oh no, is it Paris you’re wanting?”

  “It is.”

  The driver smacks his own forehead with the two palms of his hands. His expression of comic stupidity is profound.

  Thomas doesn’t know what to say or think. Everything was planned around this being the day for the diligence to Paris. It has to be Paris. Thomas looks around, and especially up the street where he expects his father to come running any moment now. Thomas picks up his bag. He’ll have to go hide somewhere outside of town, maybe down in the subterrane. That’ll buy him a day or two, until …

  “Oh yeah,” says the driver at last, bored with his game. “It is Paris.”

  “It is?”

  “Aye, it is. You’ll be in the back compartment, pup. Put the satchel up top first, then find a seat inside.”

  Thomas goes pale.

  “No, the bag, the bag has to stay with me.”

  The driver arches an eye and tips his head back. Thomas looks away, not wanting to see up his nose again. His feet pinch tight upon the satchel between his legs.

  “Does it now?” says the driver. “I think I said on top.” He scratches his head. “Yes, yes I did. And I’m the driver, right? Youse agree? Good. Well the rule is up top.”

  “But—”

  “Too crowded for a large satchel inside. It’s up top with your bag or it’s wait another day. Youse can hope for the best.”

  “But—”

  “The compartments, pup, the compartments. People don’t want to be tripping over bags. Next passenger,” the driver shouts, looking past Thomas.

  Thomas turns to see a large man behind him, as pudgy as prosperity can make a man. He has ruddy cheeks and is breathing heavily. The pudgy fellow is digging inside his veston for something. A pocket watch comes out.

  “Please, sir,” says Thomas to the pudgy man, “just a moment more.”

  Thomas holds up a single finger to demonstrate that his word is good. It will just be a single minute. Pudgy makes a face. Without waiting for anything more than that Thomas steps closer to the driver, into where the man’s onion aura is strong. Thomas whispers in the man’s ear.

  “How much to keep the satchel? With me, I mean? There’s … family heirlooms in the bag. Can’t lose them. How much to keep it with me?”

  “Ah,” says the driver, wrinkles appearing at the edges of his eyes, “that’s different, isn’t it? Family looms. How nice. Another fi- ten sols is what that’ll be. Yes, ten’s the rule if I remember right. Then youse can keep the bag. On the lap though, young pup, on the lap. Crowded it is, understand.”

  Thomas nods that he does. He crouches down and undoes the ties to the satchel. He opens it as little as he possibly can, just enough to allow his hand to squeeze through. He digs around inside, coming up with a few co
ins. It adds up to seven sols, not enough. Thomas thrusts the hand back in. He pulls out an écu this time and drops it like it’s on fire. He glances up at the driver to see if he has noticed. Caught showing too much interest, the driver looks away. Thomas retrieves just the right amount the third time.

  “Next passenger,” the driver calls gruffly. The portly man who is that next passenger needs no such shout. He’s not even an arm’s length away. He recoils at the driver’s loud call.

  “There,” says Thomas with a whisper, straightening up. He’s made sure his satchel is re-tied. “There’s the ten.”

  “That’s the way,” says the driver in a low voice, a hand closing over the coins. He sees how Thomas treats his satchel like it contains his very life itself. “Keep your family looms close, pup. And be careful who you trust. The road has its thieves. Away youse goes. Up and in now.”

  Thomas twists away from any further conversation. He is angry at himself. He said and showed too much. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t put the satchel on top.

  Up the fold-down step Thomas climbs. At the top step he sees at once why the driver didn’t want any baggage inside. All three compartments are filled, or near enough. Thomas turns around and looks at the pudgy fellow who’ll be the next one up the steps, and behind him there’s a Capuchin monk who has a hood covering his head. Thomas takes a deep breath.

  “Oh well,” he says softly, and turns sideways to step inside the coach. The compartment with the best chance for a seat is the one in the rear. There is also a pretty girl. Thomas sees that she is dressed in shades of blue. It looks like taffeta but he’s too far away to tell. The girl is seated beside a matronly looking woman he surmises is an aunt or a governess. As Thomas squeezes past those already seated he makes his excuses, especially when the coin-laden satchel strikes people as he goes by. Each person, without fail, tells him the bag has to go outside and on top. He gives an uncomprehending shrug to one and all, and clasps what he is carrying ever closer to the left side of his chest.

  “Anyone sitting there?” he asks the girl in shades of blue.

  The girl, whose name Thomas will later learn is Marielle, looks at him blankly. She shifts her gaze to the empty bench opposite her, suggesting with her eyes that this young man with the satchel clutched to his chest sit there. She does not say a word.

  “I will leave that side for those coming next,” says Thomas. He inclines his head at the portly fellow who is now filling the doorway of the diligence. The Capuchin is almost certainly right behind.

  The girl rolls her eyes but nonetheless does what he implies. She shifts over on the seat to make a bit of extra room for the young man. Thomas plunks down next to her. Their hips make full contact, though both keep frozen faces to pretend they don’t feel a thing. Thomas brings the satchel to rest upon his lap. Its heaviness is at this point a comfort, a reminder of what he’ll have to make a fresh start. He supposes he’ll feel differently about the weight later on. The journey to Paris will take three days, with overnight stays at two inns along the way.

  “Shouldn’t be in here with that,” says the pudgy fellow to Thomas as he sits down directly opposite the girl in shades of blue. He introduces himself to anyone listening. His name is Georges Strombeau, a wine merchant from Bordeaux. He’s pointing at Thomas’s satchel and pointing upward to the roof of the diligence to show where it’s supposed to go.

  “So I hear,” says Thomas. “Thank you.” He nods at the big fellow while covering his satchel with both hands and holding fast. He’ll not let his satchel go anywhere he cannot see.

  You’ve done well, my fat friend, Thomas thinks, looking across at Strombeau. The merchant has a bulging waist, an outfit of matching reds, and a grey wig that doesn’t hide a few tufts of reddish-looking hair peeking out from beneath. He also has a pocket watch that must be new, judging from the way the fellow checks it every other minute.

  “We’re late, don’t you think?” Thomas asks of Strombeau. Of course he knows the answer, but cannot help voicing his worry. Any minute now he half expects his father to run out from under the clock-tower gate with his fists upraised.

  “More than a quarter hour,” says Strombeau. The smile on the merchant’s face says that he is pleased there’s someone who shares his disapproval of the diligence not running on time. Nonetheless, he eyeballs the satchel in Thomas’s lap and gestures to the lad that it could and should go up top.

  The Capuchin is the next to find a seat, directly opposite Thomas. Père Athanase is the name that he mutters to no one in particular at all. Now inside the coach his hood is down his back, exposing his tonsured head. He’s dressed in the homespun brown, with the standard rope cord around his waist and with sandals on his feet. He’s thin with dark, sunken eyes and a pointy nose. The chin and cheeks have a thin, almost non-existent beard. His is the kind of face and frame, Thomas decides, a man of God should truly have. He’s gaunt enough to show that he’s suffered already and there’s more to come.

  There’s a shout from above. Then comes the sound of a cracking whip. The diligence lurches forward and after a few jerks starts to roll. The coach and its passengers are on their way. Lisieux tonight after a full day’s ride. Évreux tomorrow after yet another long day. Then it’s the arrival in Paris and the future begins.

  “About time.” Strombeau looks at Thomas as a kindred spirit on the matter of timeliness.

  “Indeed.” Thomas leans back with a tiny smile he simply cannot hold back. He’s startled by the relief he is feeling. It’s as if his body knows what’s happening and what it is he has in the satchel. He feels muscles he didn’t even know he had suddenly let go. He closes his eyes to savour the sensation. Yes, he could use a good sleep.

  “Why, look at that fellow.” There is laughter in Strombeau’s voice. “How vexed is he? My, my. Missed the diligence is my guess. Tough luck, I say, because they’d better not stop now. Not since we’re late and only finally on our way.”

  Thomas opens his eyes. He presses his face to the glass. He sees his father running hard, face fierce and fists upraised. Jean Pichon is through the opening under the clock-tower gate and heading for the moving coach. Right behind comes Jean-Chrys, then it’s Vinaigre. The two boys are pointing at the diligence and yelling at his father. Thomas cannot hear what the boys are saying, but Jean Pichon’s voice rings out loud and clear.

  “Thomas,” his father shouts above his panting, “stop. Thomas, it’s all we have.”

  Jean Pichon narrows the gap, arms outstretched. He’s closing in on the back of the diligence.

  Thomas takes his face from the window. He thrusts his shoulder blades against the back of the seat, eyes straight front. His hands clutch the satchel like he’s at sea and the bag is jetsam keeping him afloat. If he lets it go, he’ll sink and drown.

  “How red is that face! I tell you.” Strombeau gestures toward Thomas, urging him to look out the window. “Better watch it, I’d say. Looks like the fellow could explode.”

  “Can’t see,” says the matronly woman on the other side of the girl in blue. She is Madame Soule, a woman of inescapable size, a monument of inquisitiveness. “What is it? I cannot see.”

  “Running fellow,” replies Strombeau. “Chasing someone named Thomas.” He glances across at Thomas and cocks an eyebrow. “You’re from this town. That anyone known to you, some Thomas?”

  Thomas’s shrug comes with a wince. His face is the colour of cheese.

  “And what’s your name? You didn’t say.” Strombeau’s eyes do not match the light-hearted smile on his face. The eyes are narrowed and calculating.

  “Jean,” says Thomas, borrowing the Christian name of his father and of his friend Jean-Chrys. “Jean Tyrell,” Thomas adds, lifting the family name of a girl he sometimes adores in church.

  “Tyrell? Sounds English,” says Strombeau.

  “Long ago.” Thomas tries t
o take a breath. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

  “It’s theft, Thomas, it’s theft.” It is his father’s voice. It’s coming loud and clear from alongside the moving diligence. Right alongside. “Can you hear me, boy? It’s theft.”

  A swirling feeling fills Thomas. He takes a quick glance and sees the top of his father’s head and a hand reaching out. He cannot look, he cannot do a thing. He turns to the Capuchin, who is staring back at him. Père Athanase shakes his head slowly. There is disapproval or is it disgust on his gaunt face.

  “Oops,” sings out Strombeau.

  “What is it? I still can’t see,” says Madame Soule with a deeply furrowed brow.

  “Well, that’s that.” Strombeau sits back in his seat.

  The diligence rolls on, faster than before. Its bobbing becomes a steady rhythm of the horses’ clips and clops.

  “What happened?” asks Thomas. His voice is a croak.

  “The running man bit the dust,” says Strombeau, sounding disappointed. “Just like that.” He’d been enjoying the spectacle.

  “Bit the dust. Whatever does that mean?” asks Madame Soule, the crimson on her cheeks enflamed.

  “Just that,” says Strombeau. He uses his hand and fingers to make a running man then collapses it into his other hand.

  Madame Soule shakes her head. She does not understand.

  “For God’s sake, the yelling man grabbed at his chest just as he was coming alongside. Then just like that he fell to the ground. He had an awful look on his face I do say. A couple of young ones running behind came to his aid.”

  “And?” asks Madame Soule, a hand outstretched in Strombeau’s direction.

  “Don’t know. The road turned. Fellow’s out of sight.” Strombeau looks at Thomas, whose pale, pained face gives him a start. “What’s wrong with you? The fellow will be all right. Don’t take it so.”

  Thomas shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, and closes his eyes. He squeezes back what feels like tears, but his stomach won’t quit. It’s churning acids and there’s a surge in his chest.