Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

and you tease.

  “The emptiest vessel,” says Madame Soule in a voice intended to command the entire diligence. She looks right at Thomas. “It makes the loudest noise.” Madame sends a nod as if that drives home her point.

  Thomas raises his eyebrows at the irony of what Madame has said, and he sees and hears Strombeau chuckle out loud. Thomas sends Madame Soule a smiling wink. That causes a flutter of Madame’s lashes. She reaches out and forcibly turns Marielle’s face away from the disreputable young man and points at the embroidery she should be doing.

  There is no further conversation for a while. Père Athanase goes back to his book, Strombeau to reading a letter he’s unfolded from a pocket and the young woman and her older companion to busy needlework in their laps. Thomas hears no more lines of poetry coming his way. The clop of hooves and the sway induced by the horses’ steadily tugging pull bring an afternoon of drowsiness to him, and indeed to all passengers along for the ride.

  —

  It turns out that the inn the diligence stops at for Évreux is not in the town but on the outskirts. As inns go, this one does not look promising. Even Thomas, who hasn’t travelled much up to this point in his life, is disappointed. This is his new life, and it’s supposed to be a promising start. He expected some comfort, a level or two above what he knew back in Vire. What he sees is nothing of the kind. The place where the coach has stopped looks more like a rundown farmhouse than an inn. Though it does, it is true, boast a pole and a sign. There are no words on the sign, but there is a peeling paint image of a boar’s head. It looks like the sign was painted a generation ago and has not been touched up since. Some of the timbers of the main building are sagging. There is what appears to be rotten fill here and there, with sprouts of vegetation. As for the roof, its thatch has not been attended to in quite a while. Instead of seamless and smooth, the thatch is tufted and uneven with some thin, sunken patches. Thomas is not the only passenger to check the sky when he steps down off the diligence. Nearly everyone is checking for any sign of rain. They can see from the outside that the roof of this inn may well leak. Loose grey clouds are blowing swiftly over head. There’s a hint of blue in the distance, so the travellers just might be all right for the one night they have to pass in the boar-sign inn.

  Chickens scatter and cluck to get out of the driver’s way when he descends from up top. He lowers the walk-down steps for the passengers to get out for the night, then whistles at the inn. A child in oversized clothes, a boy of seven or eight but wearing the hand-me-downs from someone nine or ten, comes out of the main building at a run. From what Thomas can make out from the gestures, the driver wants the boy to help him unload the diligence. He holds up a coin for the lad if he will climb up top and toss down all the bags and sacks. The boy comes closer, checks out the denomination of the coin then nods and goes about his task.

  One after the other all ten passengers in the three compartments step out and come down. Each stretches and shakes his or her legs once they get to the ground. Thomas is the last to descend. He had stalled, hoping to help Marielle make her descent, his hand in hers and maybe a touch to her waist. Alas, Madame Soule was too smart for that. She batted away Thomas’s hand when he tried to make his gentlemanly move.

  “If you please,” was all Madame Soule said. Marielle, however, acknowledged his attempted assistance with a shy smile.

  By the time Thomas is to the ground everyone is well into the swap of stories about how unbearably long the journey was and how ravished and parched he or she is. Thomas resists the urge to join in. Instead, with his satchel of coins and clothes clutched to his mid-section in his two arms, he heads for the open doorway of the inn. A large man, balding in the centre of an unruly mass of hair, steps into the frame. Behind him, in the shadow of the interior, is a skinny serving girl with a low-scooped chemise revealing ample breasts. The serving girl adjusts her bonnet as she looks out to see how many there will be for the evening meal. Thomas nods at the girl and she curtseys him back.

  “Welcome all.” The innkeeper’s voice is loud. “Everything you need is right this way. Food, drink, a place to sleep. It’s all yours.” He pauses for effect. “All yours for the paying, that is.” The line is practiced, just like the smile. Sadly, this time, with these tired travellers, the response is nil, not even a smile.

  Disappointed by the reaction, but still with a grin on his face, the innkeeper steps along the path toward the road. With a bow and a sweeping arm gesture worthy of a Turkish sultan’s ambassador, he encourages each and every passenger to step inside his shabby inn.

  “Pup,” says the driver, grabbing Thomas by the elbow and pulling him off the path. He directs him over to where no one else will hear what he’s about to say.

  “What is it?” says Thomas, letting his fatigue and boredom show. He’s paid the man both the regular fare and the additional bit to keep his satchel with him inside the coach. What else can the fellow want?

  “Not forgotten,” says the driver in a hushed voice. “Set youse up tonight like we said. It’s all agreed. Send a signal sly like. Let youse know when the time is right.”

  The driver winks and Thomas blinks. He hasn’t a clue what the driver is talking about. If it’s a trick to get more money, Thomas will be on his guard.

  “Look, I don’t know what exactly you want.” Thomas frowns as he hoped to put it more nicely than that. He does still need this man to get him to Paris in the morning.

  “What we wants? It’s what you wants.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Yes, youse do.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Thinks we do.”

  “I have to go. Inside.” Thomas keeps his voice down, but this driver is starting to make him angry. The man is a dolt.

  “Half the fun, pup, half the fun,” the driver calls out as Thomas walks away.

  Thomas stops and turns round to face the man.

  “Not knowing,” says the driver with a wink. “Not knowing. Youse wait and watch. Be a sign there will.”

  With that, the driver gives Thomas a double wink, then beckons Thomas to return to hear what he can only whisper. Thomas glances about. He doesn’t want to be seen with this man. Half of a person’s rank comes from who you are seen with. Should he do as the driver asks or turn his back and get inside the inn as quickly as he can? Thomas sees there is no one else about. He decides to take the few steps, to give the driver a last chance to make sense.

  “The little one,” whispers the driver close to Thomas’s ear. Thomas cringes and wipes off what he is sure is spit. “The little one,” the driver repeats.

  And with that the driver is gone, back to the diligence to oversee the work of the lad he’s hired to unload the bags up top.

  With his satchel cradled in his arms like a baby, Thomas shakes his head at the conversation he’s just had. The driver is crazy, or near enough. Thomas steps over to the threshold of the disappointingly rustic inn where he has to spend the night. “The little one,” he mutters under his breath. What on God’s green earth is that about?

  —

  The evening drags on for everyone, perhaps for Thomas more than the rest. He is the youngest of the passengers and as such takes to waiting the least. He dearly wishes the diligence ride were over so his life in Paris could begin. With what he’s brought away in the satchel, his parents’ unknown parting gift, he can start to become who he was meant to be. That means medicine, or maybe some other worthy field.

  As he waits for the drinking and eating to end and the candles and lamps to be put out, it occurs to Thomas that maybe just maybe the driver is hinting about sex. The very possibility sends a message to his loins. The man said something like “set youse up” and later mentioned “the little one.” Fifteen and not yet with a girl, Thomas wonders if maybe the driver’s muddled words might mean just that. Wouldn’t that be a fi
ne surprise? Though what a place for it to happen. A run-down farm inn that smells of smoke and onions and cider and wine. Worse still, a dampness that suggests a pile of wet blankets and socks.

  “Oh my,” says Strombeau, giving Thomas a gentle shoulder push. “Such a faraway face.”

  The two of them are sitting side by side waiting for the platter to arrive that will hold their supper meal. Old enough to be his father, the merchant Strombeau, with no children of his own, is taking a shine to the lad. Thomas can see it in the man’s eyes, and he’s not sure he likes it. He’s just got rid of one family and doesn’t feel the need of another. At least not yet.

  “Wistful? Sorry to see our little journey come to its end?” Strombeau laughs. “Tell me, Jean Tyrell, do you so hate to say goodbye? Is it that?”

  Thomas gives a diffident shrug and a raised-cheek smile. Why won’t this evening just end and the next day begin?

  “I’m just tired,” he says, and is relieved to not have to say any more. The serving girl who had curtseyed to Thomas earlier at the inn’s entrance brings the long-awaited meal. It comes not on a platter as expected but in a large crock. When she returns she spins across the table the required number of bent pewter spoons and a trencher for each one.

  “What’s this?” asks Strombeau. His face is sour for the first time Thomas has seen. “We are supposed to have a ragoût. And with ceramic dishes at least.”

  The girl shrugs. “I’m not the cook. I’ll be back with your bread.”

  “I’m from Bordeaux,” Strombeau starts to explain, but the serving girl has turned and is rapidly moving away. Strombeau lifts two uncomprehending hands to his tablemate, a laughing Thomas. “All right, Jean Tyrell, our conversation is on hold until later on.” The pudgy merchant lifts the lid of the crock and sniffs and peers in at what wafts below. He spies white beans and sausage bits. “That’s not bad, but it’s no ragoût. That’s cassoulet. Cook must be from down south.”

  “I suppose. After you,” offers Thomas.

  “As you wish.” And Strombeau ladles a hefty three spoonfuls into his nearly overflowing wooden bowl.

  The night proceeds from there, with the merchant from Bordeaux savouring every drop. His mood is helped along by what Thomas counts as four – until there comes a fifth – tumblers of wine. Thomas is still nursing his first, not wanting to spend any more money than he absolutely must. Also, he cannot risk having his caution and judgement impaired. He needs his wits to keep his future safe, and that future is at his feet between two close-pressed shoes. Strombeau, clearly, has no such worries. He’s drinking heavily and is making jolly with all, even the serving girl each time she brings him another glass of wine. The merchant makes an increasingly funny picture to Thomas as the big man’s wig gets more and more askew.

  With his belly filled, Thomas takes a quick scan of the rest of the inn. The driver of the diligence is over by the fireplace. He’s winking and drinking with some man Thomas does not recognize. They are taking turns slapping each other on the back. Continuing his tour of the inn, Thomas sees the Capuchin and Madame Soule two tables over, deep in yet another animated conversation. Thomas is glad he’s not seated over there. The ever-uninvolved Marielle sits quietly nearby. She chances to look Thomas’s way just as his gaze happens to come to her. Their sightlines joined, Thomas stands and sends her a courtly bow. He sees her laugh and is elated. He cannot help but wonder if somehow it could be Marielle the diligence driver described as the “little one” and that somehow the crazed driver really could set them up. No, he doesn’t think the real world works like that.

  “Smitten, you are smitten,” Strombeau says to Thomas. “Ah, to be so young again. I can almost recall.” The merchant laughs. “Not lugging your satchel around tonight? That’s a change.” Strombeau leans back in his seat.

  “Ah yes, it’s between my feet,” says Thomas. “Safer there.”

  “Ah, very wise. One never knows.” Strombeau makes a face. “Who to trust, I mean.”

  “No, I think you’re right.” But what is Strombeau saying? Has the Bordeaux merchant figured out what it is that Thomas guards so close? Is he hinting that he wants some of it for himself or else? Thomas feels his body go rigid.

  “Oh relax.” Strombeau’s voice is not much more than a whisper. “I’m not after what you’ve got down there, my young friend. Whatever it is, my guess is it’s got something to do with the running man we saw chasing our diligence back in Vire.”

  Thomas cannot help his eyes darting round the room to see who else is listening. No one is as far as he can see. Thomas comes back to face Strombeau.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Oh, I think you likely do. The man was calling for a Thomas to come back as I recall.” Strombeau gives his tense tablemate a quizzical look.

  Thomas does another rapid swivel of the room. Everyone is either locked into their food and drink or in conversations.

  “Aha,” says Strombeau, “that answers that. No denial or defence means that I’m right.”

  Thomas opens his mouth to protest but before he can say a word Strombeau leans over and whispers as low as he can. “Not that it’s any business of mine, is it now?”

  Thomas’s face is cold and blank.

  “No, that’s fine. I even admire your pluck. Can’t have been easy, making off with whatever it is in your heavy sack. Money, I suppose, though there’s other things even better than coins.”

  The merchant takes a sip of wine then puts the tumbler down. He offers an understanding expression on his face.

  “Must be something to have everything you own in one small bag. So simple it is to be young and starting out.”

  There’s more than a little nostalgia in Strombeau’s voice. Thomas remains speechless.

  “Well,” says Strombeau, rising from the table, “time to drain the lizard. Back in a bit.”

  Thomas follows Strombeau with his eyes as the merchant weaves his way through the half dozen tables of the inn toward the door that leads to the back room where the necessary is located. As soon as that door is closed, Thomas assesses his situation. Should he take Strombeau at his word – that it’s none of his business – or should he get out of there? But out into the night with the heavy satchel and on foot? No, definitely not. He wouldn’t get far. He doesn’t know the country around Évreux at all. There could be thieves. Might be wolves as well.

  Thomas’s worried eyes search for the only person he thinks might be able to help. That’s the crazed driver of the diligence. He finds the man chatting up the serving girl across the room. The driver already knows there are coins in the satchel. Not how many, but he did see a few back in Vire. And yes, the man says incomprehensible nothings but he has offered several times to help. Maybe Thomas can ask him to hide the satchel somewhere that Strombeau will not find. Thomas stands and thinks to gesture the driver to come over and have a talk before Strombeau returns. But the driver is not seeing Thomas. He’s wagging his tongue at the serving girl. The moment the girl turns round to speak with someone else he’s pinching her shapely ass. The serving girl bats his hand away without even looking or turning around. Thomas figures she gets a lot of that from lowly men who come to this kind of place.

  “Oh, oh. Down in the dumps again I see.”

  Strombeau is back, smiling at Thomas like they’re fast friends. Thomas knows not what to say. Strombeau takes his seat then across the table. He gives Thomas’s shoulder a friendly push. Thomas glares at him as if to say: do that again and I’ll knock you off your chair.

  “Whoa, sorry there. Didn’t know you didn’t like to be touched.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  Thomas releases a long breath and swivels slowly in his seat. He wants to see if he can get the driver’s attention this time. No, the man is up on his feet filling his tankard from the inn’s barrel while the serving g
irl has her back to it. He helps himself to a long pull on the tap. Seated again, the driver laughs uproariously. Thomas can’t tell if it’s because he stole his drink from the barrel or because of some joke. Not once does the driver turn in Thomas’s direction.

  “Think I’ll turn in,” he says, swivelling back to Strombeau. “It’s getting late.”

  Strombeau smiles at him like there’s nothing amiss, yet Thomas senses the merchant knows everything about him – the departure from his parents and maybe even about the theft.

  “So it is. Early to bed, early to rise, the theory goes. I understand. And I’m tired too. Let’s say we go together.”

  Strombeau gets up and heads for the area over near the fireplace where the innkeeper is spreading out the straw mattresses and a couple of the overnight male guests have already bedded down. Thomas stays put, seated at the table, head in his hands. He doesn’t know who to trust. The driver? Strombeau? Or only himself? Thomas walks over to see what Strombeau is doing. He lay down as soon as he got there and hasn’t moved since. The man has his eyes closed and is snoring like a dog in front of a fire.

  Thomas studies the open spaces on the pailleasses. Which area, and beside whom, should he choose? He takes off his greatcoat and drops it to his sleeping space and kicks off his shoes. He’ll sleep just as he is, in his chemise and breeches and with his socks left on. Though he’ll need a blanket as a cover.

  He hears footsteps and turns around. It’s the driver of the diligence.

  “There you are, pup,” comes the man’s gravelly voice.

  He is speaking, for the first time Thomas has seen, through a hand covering his mouth. Thomas squints to understand. Is this the dolt’s way of being quiet, to pass on a secret?

  “Didn’t forget now, did youse?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  “Late’s better than never, is it not?”

  Thomas nods that it is.

  “Right youse are.”

  Thomas is perplexed. He glances at the large form of Strombeau snoring deeply on his straw mattress. He seems harmless enough. Should Thomas still tell the driver that maybe Strombeau has eyes for the satchel, with the family heirlooms?