Fred’s Yuletide Escape 3 – The Redshank

This is the third part of Fred’s Yuletide Escape.  If you missed the start, you can find it here.

King Fred of Marsh has decided to take off for a little adventure before his Yuletide duties start. He has just left his neighbours at Castle Wash and has to cross the causeway to reach the stage coaches, which refuse to come to the castle due to flooding.

Chapter 3: The Redshank

People accuse Castle Marsh of being desolate, but it is nothing compared with the causeway from Castle Wash.  The castle itself is safely nestled against the hillside at the edge of the vastness of sea called the Wash.

Fred pulled the blanket tighter around him as the wind plucked at it.  The chaise had high wheels, and at times they splashed through a few feet of water as it surged around them.  The causeway itself was a rocky road, smoothed by hard work and traffic, marked by a line of tall red and white painted posts, that ran dead straight from the bridge outside the castle to a low island, then across to another low island, then another, then a final long stretch to the low hills on the other side.  Whether you looked north or south from the chaise as it ran along the causeway, all you could see was sea and seabirds.  The grey sky merged with the grey water in the distance, and only a thin black line in the south showed you that there was an end to it that way.  At least at Castle in the Marsh there were reeds to keep you company.

Barley, the driver, turned round a couple of times to keep Fred posted on their progress.

“Nearly there, sir!”

“Only a few more minutes, sir.”

“Here we are, sir,” he chirruped as they drew up outside a low barn on a small hill about ten feet above the high water mark.  A painted sign on the wall announced it as “The Redshank, proprietors Archi and Py, also at The Cheeky Parrot, Wash.”

Fred eased himself out of his blanket and down onto the land.  It was dry, at least. Barley opened the door to the Redshank, and followed him in.  He had a quick word with the barman.

“Next stage will be for Seventh Happiness, sir.  Will that be all right for you?”

“Yes, Barley, that’ll be fine.  When will it arrive, do you think?”

Barley looked at the barman.

“Any time now, sir,” he responded.  “Would you like me to make up a snack for your journey?”

Fred suddenly remembered how long stages could take.  He also realised how long it had been since he’d journeyed anywhere overland. Instead of being daunted by the travelling, he suddenly relaxed,  smiling.  He thanked the barman, realised that Barley was waiting to make sure the stage arrived, so got him a drink, and then looked around The Redshank.

There were paintings of geese and other birds on the walls, and a few decorations such as corn dollies on the walls, but otherwise the place was a plain rest house, with wooden chairs and benches, where travellers could sit and wait. He looked out of the window at the sea and the causeway, and wondered about the tide.  Why would it be so much higher than usual, and for so long? Why hadn’t they noticed at Marsh?  Maybe George had.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the stagecoach.  Three passengers got out, and Fred realised that Barley had also waited to see if they needed transport to Wash.  They did.  Fred got his parcel of food from the barman, settled himself into the corner of the coach, and waited to set off again.

“Just be a few minutes, sir,” said the coachman, sticking his head through the window.

Fred acknowledged him, and shut his eyes, thinking about a snooze.  He was still thinking about it when the carriage gave a shudder and started moving.  Something was getting in the way of his snooze.  It was the coachman’s face.  He was sure he’d seen it before, and not driving a coach.

Dark comes early in December, and the light was already fading as they left the Redshank.  Now as the black of night surrounded them, Fred dozed to the clip-clop of the horses and let his memory gradually fit the face of the driver into the surroundings that it belonged to – the pirate ship called the Mare Swine.

(c) J M Pett

continues on Monday….