Sometimes In Bath by Charles Nevin
This is how Sometimes In Bath
begins, setting the scene of and for the rest of the book and featuring its
mixture of historical and fictional characters.
The stories and History of 'Britain's most elegant and intriguing city'. Sometimes in Bath is a captivating story-tour through the city's history conducted by Charles Nevin, the award-winning journalist, national newspaper columnist, author and humorist. Beau Nash, Old King Bladud, young Horatio Nelson, Jane Austen's Mr Bennet, the Emperor Haile Selassie and many more spring to life in episodes shimmering with the curious magic of Britain's oldest resort and premier purveyor of good health, happiness and romance for the last 2000 years. Each story has an afterword distinguishing the fiction from fact, adding enthralling historical detail - and giving visitors useful links to Bath's many sights and fascinations. Sometimes in Bath is warm, witty, wistful and will be loved by all who come to and from this most enchanting and enchanted of cities.
WELCOME TO BATH! It is the
middle of the 18th Century and we are down by the old Pump Room, where there is
the usual commotion of chairs and crutches, passing gamesters, assorted rogues,
ladies and gentlemen, unimpeachable and otherwise, old and young, fierce and
fluttering, frowning and frowsy; where the air is full of chatter and the cries
and wheedles of sellers of cures and trinkets, all set off by the clatter on
the cobbles. That well-set, open-eyed young man is Tom Atkins; it is his first
ever morning in Bath, and he has just stood on the foot of Dr William Oliver,
esteemed physician and founder of the Royal Mineral Water Hospital, established
for the halt and indigent.
[The Doctor, in some pain, asks
Tom to get him a sedan chair…]
‘It was lucky that the Doctor
was pointing at a small carriage without wheels standing nearby as otherwise
Tom wouldn’t have had a clue what he was talking about. South Zeal again. He
went over to the carriage, observed the long parallel poles attached to the
sides, and was working out how to pick it up when two men approached. They were
wearing long, light-blue coats and large cocked hats bound with gold lace. One
was quite tall, and the other was quite small. One’s coat was a touch too
large, the other’s too small, as were their cocked hats.
‘Yes?’ said the smaller man. ‘You
after a lift?’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Tom. ‘But
I’m all right on my own two feet. As a matter of fact, you might be interested
to know that I’ve just walked here from South Zeal.’
‘Amazing,’ said the smaller
man. The taller one said nothing.
‘Your companion seems agitated,’
said the smaller man.
Tom looked back; the Doctor was
indeed hopping up and down and waving at him.
‘Sorry, yes, he wants a Sedan,’
said Tom.
‘Then you’ve come to the right
place. We - my friend here Edgar and I - are such a said Sedan. In which
direction is he desirous of travelling?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Does it matter? Observe Edgar
and my good self and our height differential. North from here is uphill, south
downhill. If it’s to be north, then, obviously, for maximum speed and comfort,
I will go at the front, and Edgar will go at the back. If it’s to be south,
then vice versa, as the Roman gentlemen who lived here used to say at
least twice a day, three if they were feeling perky. And then, of course, there’s
the northern surcharge.’
‘Northern surcharge? What
damned northern surcharge?’ This was from the Doctor, whose temper had not been
improved by his slow hobble across.
‘Ah, Doctor, I thought it was
you, but I didn’t think a medical man would be in such a sad state. Physician,
heal thyself, and all that. The northern surcharge, an extra two pennies on the
six, has just been introduced on account of journeys in that direction being
harder work.
‘An extra two pennies?!’ cried
the Doctor, ‘That’s a bit steep!’
‘Exactly,’ said Silas.
‘But I want to go west, to my hospital!’
‘Apologies, Doctor, but - and
here I speak as a graduate of the Bath Sedan Chairmen Knowledge Appropriation
Academy - your hospital is in fact north-north-west of here, which means that,
most fortunately for you, your journey will attract only a penny surcharge. Isn’t
that so, Edgar?’
Edgar, who had remained
expressionless throughout the exchange, spoke at last: ‘It is, Silas.’ He had a
surprisingly high voice.
The Doctor was getting ever
more agitated: ‘An extra penny!? But the hospital’s only 400 yards at the most!’
‘It’ll seem longer with that
limp, Doctor.’
This was the moment for an
innocent and honest young man from Devon to stand up and be counted, and Tom
did not fail. ‘What? Only 400 yards? That’s just the hop of a frog to a South Zeal
man. Jump on my back, Sir, and we’ll be there before you can say Silas and Edgar
are a pair of platter-faced ninnycocks!’
Dr Oliver was a man conscious
of his status, but he was not a snob or a prig. He was a Cornishman by birth.
When he was not suffering from gout, or being grave with one of his patients,
he much enjoyed a laugh. Nor did he take himself as seriously as most of the
rest of Bath, especially those sufferers present for the cure who tended to
stand heavily on what was left of their dignity after drinking foul-tasting hot
water and appearing semi-naked before their fellows. And his foot was very
painful. Giving Silas, and Edgar, a look that wouldn’t have disgraced a Duchess
encountering a posterior reverberation, he climbed on to Tom’s back and put his
arms round his neck.
Tom grasped the Doctor’s legs
and set off at a good lick. The Doctor, who found he was enjoying the stir his
journey was causing, took one arm from Tom’s neck at regular intervals and
saluted passers-by, who, depending on status and inclination, were either
cheering or jeering. Excitement became even more pronounced when, just as they
were approaching the Mineral Hospital, the distinctive cream hat of Richard ‘Beau’
Nash, the promoter of Bath and arbiter of its social arrangements, was spotted
approaching.
‘Ah, Oliver,’ said the Beau, ‘Interesting
rig you’ve got there. I can see your coachman, but I can’t see your coach.’
‘Yes, Nash, I understand people
whizz around like this all day in South Zeal, but I’m not sure Bath is ready,
are you?’
and the author of both fiction and non-fiction books.
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