The Normandy Privateer by David McDine

Author:David McDine [McDine, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781539771500
Amazon: 1539771504
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2016-10-29T23:00:00+00:00

23

The thought of staying at the rectory, with his ears under daily assault from his match-making mother and his father’s church politics at every meal, filled Anson with horror. It was not difficult to convince them that, now fully recovered, he needed to be at the centre of his new command and he determined to find suitable lodgings at a Folkestone inn.

Although he had learned to ride as a small boy, long absences at sea were not conducive to familiarity with the saddle. It took Anson some time to re-master the rising trot, so that when he disembarked in Folkestone not only did his thighs ache but there was a soreness in his nether regions that forced him to mince somewhat to avoid further chafing.

Fagg was there to meet him and, ever the eagle-eyed topman, he observed: ‘Sore arse, sir?’

Anson grimaced. ‘You could put it like that. First days afloat and your sea legs have deserted you, and first days ashore and your horse has turned into an instrument of torture.’

‘Nuffink that a drop of lard won’t cure overnight, sir,’ Fagg advised. ‘But ’scuse me if I don’t volunteer to rub it in for you. Mebbe one of the rectory maids’ll do that, eh?’

Shared experience of their escape had made Anson tolerant of cheeky bandinage from Fagg that, afloat, would most definitely not be permitted coming from lower to quarterdeck.

‘Your concern is commendable, but if I need advice on medical matters I will turn to a medical man, not an uppity retired topman.’

It was not a serious rebuke, and, not a tiny bit chastened, Fagg could not resist adding: ‘Cor, I wouldn’t mind some woman, like that one what looked arter you in France fer instance, rubbing lard on my arse...’ But Anson’s darted frown told him he had overstepped the mark.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he added quickly, ‘me tongue ran orf wiv me on account of being what they calls deprived, like. Mind you, now we’re ’ere, I’ll soon put that right …’

But his voice tailed off to silence under Anson’s withering stare.

*

Anson booked himself into the Rose Inn, in Rendezvous Street. It was that or the nearby King’s Arms – both coaching inns and a cut above all the others, but the Rose reputedly had better rooms and stabling. And it was well-known as a venue for mayoral dinners, so the food was likely to be good.

Before showing him the rooms, the landlord enquired diplomatically: ‘You indicated a longish stay, sir. Might I enquire ’ow long you envisages?’

‘So long as the bed is comfortable, the food good and the stabling’s up to scratch, I think you might say it will be for the duration, Mr Griggs.’

The landlord, wisely wary of that well-known sub-species – potential Channel port moonlight flitters – was clearly delighted at the prospect of hosting a long-stay naval officer, and gave Anson the choice of the inn’s five guest bedrooms.

Anson favoured a good room with two windows, furthest away from the Free School next door, but two travelling trunks and some clothing on hooks indicated it was already taken.

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