Plot:
An older man in a gray frock coat waits in a storm for a coach. The rain runs down the back of his suit; he has neither luggage nor an umbrella. It’s St. John’s Eve, midsummer. The coach arrives. The driver, wrapped against the weather, appears to have no head. The man in gray boards, unhurried, indeed, almost disappointed. At least the mud hasn’t marred the exquisite polish of his shoes.
Among the other passengers is a woman dressed in furs and jewels—an easy draw for thieves, the man in gray surmises. The other passengers include a jovial man in corduroy with a handkerchief around his neck, a woman “of the people,” and a man who sits withdrawn in a corner and says little.
The man in the gray frock coat knows none of the others.
The man in corduroy greets him and says, “Well, mate! They’ve chosen a rare rough night to shift us on! Orders from headquarters, I suppose? I’ve been here nigh on a year and never set eyes on the boss.”
What a strange thing to say. What is he talking about?
“We used to call him God the Father,” the man in the gray frock says.”
Oh. A rather ostentatious name for a boss—particularly if these two men don’t know each other. Wait—are they dead? And they know it? Where is the coachman headed?
Thoughts:
The story is not frightening as much as it is sad. None of the passengers led a happy life. Most were unconnected in life, but one crucial connection is revealed. Yet, they realize they’ve left this world behind. Their ultimate destination is unknown.
The “woman of the people” was, in life, a baby farmer, something I was unfamiliar with. Baby farming was the practice of taking unwanted infants—for a fee—and raising them often in poor circumstances. The “woman of the people” admits to killing children for the convenience of their parents, like drowning unwanted litters of puppies or kittens. When everyone shrinks from her, she calls them hypocrites. She provided a vital service.
In my ten-minute internet search, I could find no customs that connect St. John’s Eve with death or the underworld. It’s dedicated to John the Baptist, born six months before Jesus of Nazareth (so the story goes). It is also associated with the summer solstice. In the days of yore, people often lit bonfires and had parties. I cannot discern its significance in the story. I am willing to be enlightened by any folklorist out there.
This story was an interesting, sad little read. If not in my top ten, it is still worth the time to see the perspective of the dead looking back on their lives.
Bio: Violet Hunt (legal name: Isobel Violet Hunt) (1866-1942) was a British novelist, short story writer, journalist, feminist, suffragist, and hostess. Her novels were feminist rather than supernatural, though she wrote two collections of supernatural short stories. Aside from her writing, she was well-known for her literary salons. She founded the Women Writers’ Suffrage League in 1908 and participated in the founding of International PEN (now known as PEN International), a writer’s group dedicated to literary freedom.
Oddly, I could not find a text version of this story.
This story can be listened to here: (45:11)
Title: “The Coach”
Author: Violet Hunt (legal name: Isobel Violet Hunt) (1862-1942)
First published: The English Review, March 1909
Length: short story
Reviews of Old and New Stories. Mostly Old 