The Reavers. George Fraser MacDonald

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      “An’ wheer’s the thatch on that friggin’ thing?” demanded Oor Kid Charlton, who always supported his big brother.

      “Haud on a minnit,” demurred an awkward Robson. “Peel towers hezn’t got thatches, an’ we boorn them.”

      “Peel towers hezn’t got wheels, ye daft git! A coach isna an immobile dwellin’, neether!”

      “It wad be, tho’ if ’twas in a caravan park or trailer camp.” The Milburn shop steward was consulting his index. “Wheer is’t? ‘Pyped watter … refuse disposal … landlord-bashin’ …’ Aye, here it’s! ‘Trailers, albeit wheeled, shall be deemed crofts, cots, or steadings, so they be stationary …’ Weel, that booger’s stationary, so Ah say we’re in business!”

      “Naw, we’s not,” snarled Wor Jackie. “Bastard thing’s moovin’. An Ah doobt if that’s a caravan park.”

      “Aw, coom on, man! Hoo d’ye ken, wid a’ the snaw?”

      “’Ey, we could run-off th’ hosses! They’re livestock, so we’re entitled – an’ then it wadn’t be moovin’! Warraboot that, Wor Jackie?”

      A further moment’s debate followed in which a Milburn was unhorsed and two Charltons received flesh wounds, and then Wor Jackie sheathed his broadsword and gave his casting vote.

      “We tek th’ hosses, awreet – but if them fellas that’s pushin’ the coach can keep it moovin’ … hands off! An’ they’re not to be strucken, nor tripped neether, thou base football players! But the minnit they stop shovin’, an’ it stops, it ceases tae be a ve-hickle, an’ we can git stoock in! Awoy, Tynedale! Up the Magpies!”

      Like a black avalanche the scrupulous freebooters swept down the snow-clad slope, flourishing swords and supporters’ club scarves, lances couched and rattles a-clatter, and before the bewildered grooms knew what had hit them they had been pinioned and dropped in wayside drifts, and the coach horses had been neatly whipped from the shafts and labelled “Spoyle”. But alas for the reivers’ hopes: the coach kept rolling slowly, because the lackeys behind, all unaware of what was happening up ahead, were packed down in three-two-three and putting in a splendid shove, with Coachman Samkin hovering at their heels yelling: “Keep it tight, back row!” The two loose lackeys who’d been under the wheels were receiving attention from the trainer, but soon they too piled into the ruck, and the coach crunched merrily o’er the snow, to the disgust of the reivers, who could only mooch along behind, foiled but still hopeful.

      “This lot’ll be weel knackered afore they’re halfway to Alston,” opined Wor Jackie, wi’ vulpine grin. “An’ then – away the lads!”

      Meanwhile, within the coach, its evident progress had restored Lady Godiva to her normal petulance, and she was reduced to complaining about the Peruvian sweetmeats (no soft centres), when Kylie, peeping out of the back window, let out a girlish whoop.

      “Gosh, Goddy! Clock this lot! Great hairy chaps in black leather and spurs! Wow! Eat your heart out, Schwarzenegger – it’s goose-pimple time! Oh, good mistress, shall we not bid a couple of them in, for refreshments and the like?”

      Lady Godiva cast a languid eye astern, and wrinkled aristocratic nostril. “’Tis but the local rough trade, or itinerant bikers, and far ’neath the notice o’ gentlewomen such as we. Stop smirking, wench, you’re not a groupie!”

      “I could be,” sighed wanton Kylie. “Regard me those bulging biceps on the gorilla wi’ the tin vest – and talk about designer stubble! Flutter, my maiden heart!”

      “Maiden, my foot!” snapped Godiva. “Why, thou randy minx, hast no shame – Godamercy!” she exclaimed. “We’re stopping!”

      It had been bound to happen, of course. One of the back-row lackeys, pausing for breath, had glanced behind, and noticed that he was being shadowed by what looked like a dyspeptic Jack Palance, who stropped glittering blade on horse’s flank and inquired wi’ gloating leer: “Gittin’ tired, son?” Three seconds later a dozen lackeys were in screaming flight across the snow, Coachman Samkin had fainted, the carriage was at a standstill, the Charltons and Milburns were pillaging the rear luggage-rack with cries of “We’re in, Meredith!”, and Lady Godiva and Kylie were exchanging wondering glances (not unmingled with excitement in Kylie’s case) and asking each other what this might portend.

      Well, we know, don’t we? Here’s beauty unprotected, and a gang of licentious bandits, not one of them in need of vitamins, working up a head of steam on the spare bottles of peach brandy in the boot – and now they tear open suit-cases and goggle in lustful amaze at piles of frilly undergarments and fishnet hose which even their untutored imaginations have no difficulty in filling. In an instant they have put two and two together, and are climbing over each other to get to the coach door, flinging it wide and feasting lewdly bugging eyes on their gorgeous prey, one of whom sinks back all silkenly a-flutter while the other sits bolt upright, ba-boom! in voluptuous indignation. For one stricken instant the principals regard each other, Wor Jackie licking gaunt chops as he lamps Godiva’s vibrating fury, while Oor Kid leers drooling on buxom Kylie. Then, as often happens in unexpected social encounters, everyone speaks at once:

      “Aaarrnghhh!” growls Wor Jackie, pawing with his feet. “Broomphh!”

      “Are ye doin’ anythin’ the neet, hinny?” inquires Oor Kid.

      “Alack, we are undone!” twitters Kylie hopefully.

      “Doesn’t anyone north of the Humber knock!” demands Lady Godiva, bosom flashing and eyes heaving. “Mannerless rabble, shalt lose thine ears, and other bits as well, for this rash intrusion! This is a private compartment! Back, I say, and on your bikes! Dost know who I am?”

      “The answer to a randy reiver’s prayer!” squeaked a small Milburn at the back, leaping and ogling. At which the whole sweaty mob, beards a-bristle and visors misting up with unholy desire, surged forward with gloating yells of “Gang bang!” “Bags I the redhead!” “Ah’ll bet the little ’un doesn’t half bounce!” and “Keep th’ hosses, who needs them?”, only to be flung back by Wor Jackie’s iron arm.

      “Haud oop!” he thundered. “Are ye men or beasts? Two defenceless gentlewomen, ladies o’ birth an’ beauty, an’ ye’d be at ’em like rootin’ stags gone crackers! For shame! Is there nae decency or order among ye?” His dreadful eye rolled from the lovely twain to his panting followers struggling with their buttons, and back again, what time he doffed steel cap, bared snaggle teeth in a hideous grin, and ran a small comb through his beard. “Them as fancies Blondie, line oop behind Oor Kid! All them for Carrot-top, follow me!” He seized Godiva’s horrified wrist in a paw like a hairy shovel. “Your place or mine, duchess? Coach or snowdrift – choose! Har-har!”

      His grating laugh ended in a strangled croak as a dainty satin slipper, scientifically driven, smote him in his tenderest spot; not for nothing had Lady Godiva captained the Benenden karate team. And back with him reeled Oor Kid, neatly head-butted by resourceful Kylie, who had repented her wanton flirtatiousness in the face of brutal assault. As the reivers collapsed in a tangle, their two leaders clutching themselves and making statements, the coach door slammed, Lady Godiva’s crisp command of “Drive on, Samkin!” rang clear – little did she realise that Samkin was three fields away, crouched in a ditch with his eyes shut, whimpering: “Take the credit cards, mister, but please don’t hit me!”, and that the coach was without means of propulsion. Our gallant girls have won themselves but a brief СКАЧАТЬ